


how to boil a frog (in fourteen easy steps)

by Kay_schned



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Almyra (Fire Emblem), Almyra politics, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination attempts, Background Relationships, Byleth being a badass, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Claude is Khalid, Claude's family is a mess, Claudeleth is life, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jeralt is alive and a badass, Jeralt's Mercenaries - Freeform, Most characters are just mentions, Post-Timeskip Claude von Riegan, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Rhea sucks and she's dead, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Unified Fodlan, character cameos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kay_schned/pseuds/Kay_schned
Summary: Prince Khalid of Almyra has had enough attempts on his life he's lost count. He'd appreciate if his siblings would give him a moment to breathe, but that's unlikely. He's lucky his father has been kind enough to hire some mercenaries to keep him out of trouble. Or maybe it's fate.
Relationships: Balthazar von Adalbrecht | Balthus von Albrecht/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Hilda Valentine Goneril & Claude von Riegan, Hilda Valentine Goneril & My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 29
Kudos: 51





	1. Step 1: get attacked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am satisfying my need for Claudeleth by writing something. This is my first time putting anything on this site (on any site, actually), so here's hoping it's any good.

Khalid is tired of the attempts on his life.

Half the time, when an assassin tries to pick him off in the dead of night or during one of his many excursions to the palace library, he at least gives them a few chances to kill him. Mostly out of boredom. The other half, he picks them off himself and goes on about his business. After living with assassins trying to kill him for the past twenty-four years, it’s no wonder he has gotten used to saving his own neck. No one else was going to do it for him. It should come as no surprise to him that his numerous siblings are gunning for his neck first.

He almost laughs at the thought; the youngest and the half-breed mongrel… shouldn’t be hard, right? He’s determined to show them he’s a lot harder to kill than the others.

Weaving his way through the palace halls, Khalid decides it might be time to silence some of the doubts about him. If they want to fight dirty, he will show them how he fights. It seems a few well-selected poisons and quiet deaths here and there aren’t enough for them to realize he’s not interested in their half-hearted attempts on his life. He’s not one step behind them, they’re one step behind him.

His feet carry him to the stables, despite his wish to peruse the library again.

(Perhaps that is why he is caught off guard later. He’d deviated from his routine, hoping to spend time with Shahnaz. He hadn’t been to see the wyvern in some time, he felt almost deprived just thinking about how he had neglected the poor beast. Any other time and it would have been fine.)

The white wyvern stares at him curiously, cooing excitedly upon his approach.

Smiling, he pats his wyvern’s nose, fishing around in his pocket for one of the pieces of jerky he’d been saving. “I’ve missed you, too, my friend,” he laughs. “I hope you’ve been behaving yourself.” Shahnaz responds by nudging his hand. “Yes, yes, you can have it. Greedy thing.” He tosses the jerky up, watching as the wyvern snaps it out of the air and shuffles its wings in its happiness. Khalid snorts.

Sighing, he turns and settles down in the hay. Shahnaz snorts and settles in beside him, great head resting close by his side. He appreciates the company his steed brings along with the solitude of being away from other people. But while being in the stables is possibly safer than the library—Shahnaz would sooner massacre the entire palace than let anything happen to Khalid—the Almyran prince knows he comes here more for the chance to avoid potential assassins than the company. After all, Shahnaz is no conversationalist.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, one leg outstretched while the other is tucked up to his chest. He’s engrossed in a book he snatched on his detour to the library the night before, an entire account of Almyra’s history.

Or… the legends behind it, at least.

There’s far more mysticism than the reality, but he shouldn’t be surprised. A lot of Almyra’s tales are mystical in one way or another. Fódlan’s history is almost as mystical, but with less gods. There is only one goddess in Fódlan, and as far as Khalid is concerned, she was far from benevolent. From what he has heard during his father’s talks with his advisors, Seiros—Archbishop Rhea, as she had come to be known—was no goddess. She was a beast in hiding, using a fake religion to keep humanity under her control. He’s not sure he would have liked her.

But the book is fascinating all the same, which is why he doesn’t realize how late it is until he has finished more than half of it as the light fades. Shahnaz huffs, blinking sleepy red eyes open. Khalid smiles. “Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you awake.” The wyvern coos as he rises and brushes the hay from his clothes. “I’ll come by tomorrow, I promise.” Shahnaz’ eyes narrow almost threateningly. “Hey, I said I promise! I always keep those!” The wyvern snorts, but closes its eyes and makes no move to stop him from leaving. Smiling to himself, Khalid turns and heads out of the stables. He’s tired and hungry.

Did he eat today?

The grumbling of his stomach tells him no.

It is this thought, and the fact he had not stuck to his routine, that have distracted him enough for the assassin lurking in the shadows to jump out at him. He turns with enough time to parry a strike to his back with the knife he keeps on his belt, but he shouldn’t have let the attacker get so close in the first place.

It’s hard to tell which of his siblings this one had been hired by. Esfir, maybe? She would be more than happy to end his life. She’s said so on more than one occasion. Or perhaps it is Bahadur? Feroze would do it himself. _Has_ done it himself more than once. And failed, twice, in both duels.

Whoever it was, Khalid was too distracted to notice and has lost whatever upper hand he would have had. Grimacing, he kicks his assailant in the shin before shoving them back. “And here I was, just trying to get something to eat before bed.” He can’t see his attacker well enough in the low light, and they are sticking to the shadows. He growls under his breath, glancing over his shoulder briefly when he hears steps behind him. He curses. There’s another one… he should have noticed them earlier.

Deciding to chastise himself later, Khalid takes a few steps to the right so he can make sure his back is not turned to them.

He feels like a child again, being caught off-guard like this. How old had he been then? Five? Younger? He shakes the memory away and ducks when the first assassin lunges for him. He drops to the floor completely as the second moves to cut him while he is avoiding the first. “Two on one hardly seems fair.” He rolls onto his back and grabs the first by the ankle; he slides out from under them, dragging the first to the floor as he turns and gets to his feet. “They must be pretty desperate if they’re sending more than one at a time now.”

He might’ve been able to laugh if he hadn’t heard the quiet patter of someone running toward him. _Three?!_ He should have guessed they’d start upping their game like this, but three seems uncharacteristically cheap of them.

Cursing internally, Khalid turns and strikes out at the third assailant while the other two are scrambling to get up. The newest assassin blinks at him, frowning, but parries the blow easily enough. He frowns as he is shoved out of the way, disorienting him enough for the assailant to brush past him and swing the silver sword down on the closest assassin. Khalid stumbles back, frozen in his confusion as he watches the sword-wielding attacker take down the other assassin. He’s not sure if he’s seeing things because of his growing hunger or if what he’s witnessed truly happened. In the dim light, it’s hard to make them out. If they were an assassin, they were wearing the right kind of colors to keep themselves hidden.

Huffing—though clearly not out of breath—the stranger turns to glare at him.

Khalid flinches. He’s not sure what’s scarier; the fact this stranger has just taken down two assassins without breaking a sweat or that they are staring at him as if he’s done something completely foolish. He’s not sure if he’d be able to raise his blade to this person, he’s too impressed.

Something changes in their posture and they rush toward him, taking him by surprise. He raises his knife, but they are grabbing him by the shirt and practically throwing him. It is then that Khalid’s eyes adjust to the situation and he sees the knife plunging out of the darkness.

His eyes widen as he watches helplessly while the knife finds a spot in the stranger’s chest.

(He blames himself for being distracted, for deviating from his routine, for so many things he loses count. Most of all, he blames himself for never asking this stranger’s name.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely not your typical FE3H AU. Claude was never the heir to House Riegan and never went to Garreg Mach; Edelgard conquered Fodlan with Dimitri's help before turning her attention to Those Who Slither in the Dark; the Church of Seiros is gone; Byleth is a skilled mercenary and never taught at Garreg Mach; Jeralt is very much alive and Rhea is very much dead. And the best part of all: This is all going down in Almyra!
> 
> My wonderful friend actually came up with this idea, I'm just the one spitting out words and hoping they make sense. I'm gonna try and post every week, but if I don't... it's because I'm just a goon and forgot.
> 
> And just so you don't forget the names of Claude's siblings (at least the three mentioned in this chapter), here they are:  
>  **Esfir ("star-like"):** Claude's older half-sister; a calculating and shrewd woman whose bad side you do not want to get on  
>  **Bahadur ("fighter"):** Claude's oldest half-brother; a tactical man who doesn't quite live up to his name and is more content to send assassins to do his dirty work  
>  **Feroze ("man of triumph"):** Claude's second oldest half-brother; a man of action who would rather fight Claude himself than send assassins
> 
> Considering Claude's own Persian parallels, I went ahead and continued the theme with his siblings and most of Almyra's worldbuilding. We'll get to see more of it as the story progresses, which I'm excited for. Most of the names will be of Persian origin, some of them are significant while others I just like the sound of. Shahnaz, for instance, fit both categories! It means "ruler's pride," and it sounds nice. And now that I've thoroughly rambled on, I'll sign off here by saying that if you like the story so far, go ahead and subscribe for updates and hit the kudos button!


	2. Step 2: save a life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth has no time for princes who put their lives at risk. Or maybe she has all the time in the world?

Byleth is sure she is dead. And yet, she still breathes. At least she thinks she is breathing. She wouldn’t be surprised if this was all part of her final moments. Her life flashing before her eyes and all that. That’s how everyone describes it, right?

“You idiot!”

She blinks, looking around the dark room—is this a room?—in confusion. Her eyes are drawn to the stone steps before her, leading up toward a towering stone throne. A young girl glares down at her. The green hair, the pointed ears, the annoyed glower all seems… strangely familiar.

_Young?_ Something about that doesn’t seem right. She thinks they’ve met…

Dumbly, Byleth tips her head and says, “What?” She realizes it’s the wrong thing when the girl’s lips pull back in a snarl.

“Don’t play coy with me! What were you _thinking_ ?” Byleth blinks, confused. Growling, the girl waves her hand. A bubble appears above Byleth’s head; she has a dagger plunged through her chest. So she hadn’t imagined it. “Are you _trying_ to kill us!?” Byleth grimaces. “I have frozen time for now, but you have done something foolish. What do you think is the best way to save someone? By letting yourself die?” The girl huffs, crossing her arms. “Foolish, I am surrounded by fools!”

Byleth feels as though she should know her name… it’s strange not knowing it.

“What will happen once time starts again?” The girl narrows her eyes. Byleth doesn’t need her to answer. “I’ll die…”

“Obviously.” She sighs and shakes her head. “But if you die, then so do I. And I would prefer that not happen.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “What to do… hm…”

She’s not inclined to interrupt, but Byleth shrugs and replies, “Turn back time?”

The girl blinks, glancing down at the mercenary curiously. “Yes. I can do that.” She hums, turning her attention to the bubble. “How far back…? Ah, I know…” Her hands circle the bubble, and Byleth watches in fascinated wonder as the world rewinds itself. “Yes, yes, this should be fine.” The girl stops and drops her hands, nodding to the bubble. “This time, do not die.”

Byleth tips her head, staring at the scene before her.

She is standing in front of the prince, who is, in turn, staring dumbly at her. She wonders if she’d laugh if she were someone else. He looks so very… _clueless_. “And do not let that boy die, either. That would be most unfortunate.” She glances at the green-haired girl. “Turning back time is but a trifle for me, but… you should not waste my power over something as trivial as a simple assassin. You have been in worse situations.”

Byleth frowns. “Who—?”

The girl narrows her eyes, but she yawns and turns to make her way back to the throne. “You may call me Sothis. Now, leave me be. I’m sleepy. And you have a prince to save.”

Byleth doesn’t get much of a choice in the matter. She is forcibly yanked out of her own mind and thrown back into the chaos of the dark palace hallway. The prince is staring at her, just as he had been before—

Her attention snaps to the shadows and she leaps forward without hesitation. Her sword finds its prey, the crunch of it goring through bone and the gurgling of the assassin’s surprise the last things they manage to get out. She feels the prince watching her. He is a bundle of tension and wariness as she turns to face him. She should probably introduce herself…

“Byleth!” She turns at the sound of her father’s voice. He and the other mercenaries hurry to catch up. She’d forgotten how she’d left them behind when she’d run off to find the prince. She’d taken out a fourth assassin a few halls back and hadn’t waited to see if their new client was beyond their help. “Huh. Looks like you didn’t need our help.” She shrugs. “And you kept the brat safe.”

The prince—Khalid, right? She vaguely remembers his father mentioning his name—is frowning at them. She’s sure he has a million questions.

He settles for one. “Who are you?”

Her father nods to the prince, though she wonders if it’s too casual. Is there protocol for how formal they are meant to be? The king hadn’t said anything about it. “Jeralt’s Mercenaries. I’m Jeralt Eisner, and this is my daughter, Byleth.” Khalid lifts an eyebrow at him. “We were hired to keep you safe.”

If the prince had been tense before, he was wholly anxious now. His eyes narrow and he straightens enough to intimidate a few of the newer mercs. “Hired by who?”

“Your father,” Byleth answers. She kneels down and wipes the assassins’ blood off with one of their shirts. “Said to keep you out of trouble.” She rises and turns to look at him, but what had been awe in his gaze before was replaced with something she can’t quite read. There’s a mask drawn over his face now, and while he certainly doesn’t look unhappy about this revelation, she can’t read whatever it is he _is_ feeling beneath that detached mask of his. “We should probably leave the hallway.” She nudges the leg of the dead assassin in the shadows. “It’s not safe here.”

Khalid, despite his obvious mistrust for them, nods in agreement. “You can leave the bodies.” His gaze flicks over them one-by-one before landing on Byleth. “You’re quite handy with that sword.” She tips her head at him. “I don’t need to know you to see that you’re the most capable of the group.” He doesn’t give her a chance to say anything in return, his attention instead turning to her father.

_“He’s quite an interesting one, isn’t he?”_ She flinches. _“Oh, did you forget about me? How rude!”_ Byleth frowns, dropping her head to avoid someone seeing her. _“Anyway, I think this will be most intriguing. I would like to know more about this boy. He seems to hold many secrets, and I do not just mean the very obvious fact he is being targeted by assassins.”_ It’s hard to focus on what Khalid is saying to her father while Sothis is chattering away in her head. _“You are a rude one! I am not chattering!”_

“Hey, kid,” she looks up at the sound of her father’s voice, “did you hear me?” She shakes her head. He frowns at her. “Hm…” Despite the disappointment others would hear, Byleth only hears the faint worry in his hum. “Well, the brat said he’d show us to the guest rooms. But someone needs to stick around with him to keep him from getting into trouble. You up for the task?”

“Me?”

Khalid glances back at her, but she barely gets the chance to look back before he is turning away again. Jeralt nods, pulling her attention away from the prince. “He asked for you. Said you impressed him with how you handled the assassins, so he thinks you’d be a pretty decent bodyguard. At least until he talks with his father.”

Byleth frowns. “About what?”

“I didn’t choose any of you,” the prince says simply. “Seems my old man is pulling one of his very own schemes this time.” Byleth thinks she hears him mutter, _“He should know that’s my thing,”_ but neither she nor her father ask him to repeat it.

Jeralt shakes his head. He’s far more suited to this kind of thing than she; she’s never been a bodyguard before. As far as she knows, he’d been a bodyguard for ages before she’d been born. “What do you say? Think you can stick with _His Royal Brattiness_ for a while?” Khalid makes a sound almost like a scoff. He must not think it’s important to say anything about the insult, considering he didn’t hire them. “At least for tonight?” She would laugh, but she isn’t sure if she should. So she doesn’t. She shrugs instead.

“Sure. I can look after him.”

She lengthens her stride to catch up with Khalid, lingering just a few steps behind. He glances her way a few times, but he doesn’t try to pick up a conversation with her. She doesn’t blame him. If she lived with siblings who wanted her dead, she wouldn’t trust a strange mercenary group even if they’d saved her life.

He stops and looks over his shoulder at the others. “The guest rooms are down the hall to the right,” he says, pointing in the direction of the rooms. “They’re big enough for at least three per room. Cots and bedrolls are in the closets.” Jeralt nods his thanks and turns, the group breaking off and heading in the direction they’d been pointed in. She is left alone with Khalid, the hall suddenly too quiet for her liking. He must not like the silence either because he sighs heavily.

Byleth turns her attention to him. “Something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” He looks down at her, but he’s wearing that unreadable mask of his again. “Are you hungry?” She blinks up at him. “I didn’t have dinner. In the long run, it’s probably a good thing I didn’t take the risk of being poisoned, but I am hungry.” He turns in the opposite direction her father and the rest of the mercenaries had gone. “And if I don’t eat something now, I’ll stay up all night.”

She isn’t sure how those two correlate, but she follows as he makes his way down the hallway. The Almyran palace is larger than she would have thought. She’s never been in something this big before. She’d get lost if she weren’t following the prince. The alabaster columns and the expansive gardens caught her attention when they’d first arrived, and then they’d stepped inside and the palace was as beautiful on the inside as it was on the outside.

“You don’t talk a lot, do you?” She looks at Khalid. “Or is it because you don’t think you should talk to me? Royalty and all that?”

Byleth shakes her head. “I just don’t talk much.” She frowns and glances over her shoulder.

He hums, something thoughtful about the way he is looking at her, but she misses what he says when she turns on her heel to face whoever is following them. Her hand is at her sword by the time she realizes she is turning at the sound of a cat. The white creature mews up at her, continuing its advance before coiling its way between her legs.

“That’s Aisha.”

She thinks she hears him snickering, but when she turns to him there is nothing but a small smile on his lips. She frowns. Perhaps it is just her imagination, but—

Aisha interrupts her with another meow. “Seems she likes you.” Khalid kneels down and hoists the cat into his arms. She purrs, snuggling against his chest. Wearing a grin almost too light, the prince winks at Byleth and says, “C’mon, the kitchen is this way. I’ll let you know if someone sneaks up on us.”

She frowns as he turns. _“He’s quite cheeky.”_ She grimaces. _“I like him.”_

Byleth would congratulate Sothis, but she doesn't bother. Instead, she hurries to catch up with the prince as they continue their journey to the kitchen.

Maybe it was just her imagination, but she was sure those smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then again, she could have been imagining it. Or… she could be right. Whatever she’d seen, Khalid is—as Sothis had put it— _interesting_.

She almost wants to know more about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sothis and her sass have arrived! And I'm hoping I've written both her and Jeralt correctly because heck if I know what I'm doing. Here's hoping I get both of them right through the rest of this. This is a whole new playing field for me, so if I do get something wrong, definitely let me know. I am all for critiques on my work, especially if I'm not portraying something right.
> 
> Drop a comment and if you like it, leave kudos! Feedback is always welcome!


	3. Step 3: question everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khalid is not happy with his father's decision, but he may as well make the most of it. So what could be better than spending a day with his newest mystery?

Khalid doesn’t know what to make of the mercenaries. Jeralt is strong—he doesn’t need to have seen him fight to know this—but Byleth is something else entirely. If she wanted to, he’s sure she could cut him down.

He wouldn’t stand a chance if she had orders to do so.

He’s good with a sword, but she’s an expert. Nader might have taught him a few tricks, and he may be considered a decent swordsman, but he has nothing on her. She had shoved him out of the way and cut down two of the assassins without missing a beat. She’d nearly thrown him over her shoulder and run her sword through the chest of the last one, moving as if she’d foreseen it. She moves like a demon, killing without prejudice, emotionless. He’s never met someone like her before.

But she is horribly oblivious.

He’d asked her to accompany him to the kitchen because he’d wanted to know more about her, but she’d been silent unless spoken to. Luckily, he enjoys mysteries, and she is a mystery he wants to crack open.

But his interest in her doesn’t stop him from approaching his father the next morning and staring him down. “Why did you hire them?” His father lifts an eyebrow, but his normal unimpressed impassivity remains even as he holds his son’s glare. “The mercenaries, why did you hire them?” Khalid knows the answer, but if the old man is going to keep interfering then the prince will continue being a thorn in his side.

“To keep you out of trouble.” Khalid doesn’t miss the implied, _“To keep an eye on you in case you try something.”_ He shifts on his feet, hands on his hips. “You’ve been without a guard of your own for too long. You should be grateful. From what I hear, they’ve proven themselves already.”

“One of them has.”

Khalid doesn’t bow as he turns to leave. “Khalid,” he stops, “do be careful. Your sister is becoming far more ambitious.” There’s a laugh at the edge of his voice; he’s humoring himself. “I’d hate to see you fall before the others. Don’t disappoint me.”

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” he says without turning.

His father does chuckle this time. “And try not to get yourself killed before the diplomats arrive. I hear the Goneril family is sending someone this time.”

Fists clenched at his side, Khalid forces himself to remain silent as he stalks out of the throne room. Byleth is waiting for him. He would have tried sending her away if he’d thought it would make a difference. He sighs, tugging absently at his braid. She looks at him expectantly, awaiting orders.

“You’re still here.” She tips her head, but he waves a dismissive hand. “Never mind.”

Ignoring her odd presence as best he can, Khalid heads for the library. He’s spent enough time deviating from his normal activities, it’s time he rectified his mistakes. Besides, he has a book to return and another to check out.

But the near-silent fall of her steps behind him wears on his patience. Suppressing the urge to tell her to go away, he pulls on a smile and glances over his shoulder at her. She is as blank as she had been before, though he can tell she is attentive and listening to their surroundings. It took him a few years to understand every nook and cranny of the palace, but he’d understood the sounds by the time he was, at best, four.

Back then, he’d thought the attempts on his life had been from an outside source. He learned soon enough that was not the case.

Byleth, however, seems to have picked up on every subtlety already. She has been in the palace for less than a day and a half, and she is picking up what is a threat and what is not. He’s impressed, to say the least.

“Did you need something?” she asks, blue eyes turning to him. “You should be paying attention.”

“Who says I’m not?” If the incline of her head and the small furrow of her brow is enough to tell him anything, it is that she doesn’t understand the suggestion in his voice. “Byleth, was it?” She nods. “I’m afraid we didn’t have a proper chance to introduce ourselves and get to know each other last night.”

“That’s not necessary.” It is Khalid’s turn to frown. “We’re only here to keep you out of trouble. Once that’s done, we’re leaving.”

“I don’t see how—”

“Leaving Almyra. This is our last job here.” Ah, he understands. “We were going to leave sooner. Your father changed that plan.” She shrugs, glancing over her shoulder once.

Aisha is following them again.

Khalid hums, stopping when he sees that Byleth has knelt down to pick up the cat. He is about to warn her about Aisha’s… _finicky_ behavior, but there is no need. The white fluffball purrs and nestles in against Byleth’s chest, tall draped over her arm as the mercenary rises and looks back at him. Of all the strangers Aisha has warmed up to, Byleth is perhaps the first she has not clawed upon meeting a second time.

He’s not entirely sure what to make of that. He’ll think about it later.

In an effort to keep the silence from swallowing their conversation, Khalid says, “My father has a tendency to change a great many things.” If that makes her curious, she doesn’t show it. Not that he expects her to. She is as stoic as her own father. “How long have you been a mercenary, Byleth?”

“My entire life.” He hides his surprise with a slow nod. “It’s all I know.”

Khalid doesn’t believe that. He is good at lying, but she seems to be pretty good at it, too. Or maybe it’s that she doesn’t realize she’s lying and truly believes it. She absentmindedly strokes Aisha’s head.

“What about your father?”

She hums. “Jeralt Eisner, known as the Blade Breaker.” Khalid doesn’t mask his surprise this time. He’s heard stories of the man from Nader. So her father is the Blade Breaker? He’s a legend in Fódlan. “I don’t know what you want to know about him.” No, she wouldn’t. “Is there something you wanted to know?”

He shakes his head, pushing open the door to the library. “No, nothing in particular. I was just curious.” She steps inside, letting Aisha leap from her arms and scramble up the stairs to her usual sunning spot. “If he’s the Blade Breaker… that makes you—”

“The Ashen Demon.” He feels a smile tug at his lips. “That’s what they call me, at least.”

Khalid nods, making his way to the back shelves to return the book. “I’ve heard about you.” He’s sure she’s frowning (she does that a lot), but she doesn’t say anything about it. “You and your father are legends in Fódlan. My… combat instructor has told me about you two.” That’s an accurate way of talking about Nader. “Having seen you in action, I’ve got to say that the legends don’t do you justice.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

_That_ he does believe.

For all the strength she possesses, he has a feeling she is incredibly sheltered. She seems to know little of the world. But as a mercenary, he supposes she must not have needed to know about it. What she has grown up with is her own normal, and it has kept her alive for who knows how long. She doesn’t need to know the intricacies of court life or the complexities of Fódlan’s history. She’s lucky in that regard. He wonders what his life would be like if he had not grown up here.

Almyra is not an easy place to live, not even for the common folk. Being royalty means nothing if he can’t live long enough to claim what could be his.

But what if he had been elsewhere? What if he had a different life?

“Well, trust me, your legends don’t do you justice.” He picks out a colorfully-spined book, flipping it around to read the title. It’s a book on Almyran festivals. “I think those legends have been told by people who haven’t seen you fight.” He slides the book back on the shelf, uninterested in the festivals. “How do you like Almyra so far?”

She hums, her attention turned toward the rest of the library. “It’s as well as any other place.” Khalid glances over his shoulder at her. She isn’t looking at him, back turned. She is confident he isn’t strong enough to defeat her, otherwise she would never have left herself open. He’d call it cocky, but he’s not sure she has it in her. She simply knows what she is capable of. “I’m not here for scenery and sights.”

Khalid turns at that, a wicked grin tugging at his lips. “How long will you be here?”

She turns and narrows her eyes at him. “Until the job is done.” She blinks stupidly as he swoops in and snatches one of her arms in his. “What—?”

“It’s time to see the sights and scenery of Almyra.”

“I don’t think—”

“No excuses. I have to pick up a few things in the market, anyway. And you wouldn’t want to fail in protecting me, would you?” Her blank stare and flattened mouth is enough of an answer for him. “I didn’t think so.” He winks at her, dragging her away from the books he so wanted to read.

“Stop that.” He hums. “The winking, I mean.”

He scoffs. An odd request. “Why?”

“You don’t mean it.”

He almost blanches, catching himself before she can catch it. No one has been able to see he doesn’t mean it before. Still smiling, while he avoids making himself seem like a fool, Khalid shrugs and makes a noncommittal sound. “How do you know? I could mean it.”

Byleth shakes her head, but she doesn’t explain.

“Well, while we’re out, we can talk _all_ about it.” The small frown on her brow almost brings a real smile to his lips. “Or we can talk about nothing at all. You’re not exactly talkative.” She might have rolled her eyes, but she’s not that kind of person. “So maybe I’ll talk and you’ll just listen.”

“You talk enough for both of us.”

He blinks, surprised at the remark, but there’s no humor in her eyes. “I talk enough for everyone.” It’s the one time he’s been fully honest with her. It’s not much, but it’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags mentioned it, but did I mention that this is a _super_ slow burn? Because we love that super slow burn and this is all entirely new to me. Slow burns are hard, I'm the kind of person who just wants everyone to smooch and live happily ever after by chapter 1. But here we are on chapter 3 and our favorites are pretty far from kissing. Woe is me, sighs. But they'll get there! Eventually...
> 
> As always, leave a comment/feedback and kudos if you like the story!


	4. Step 4: see the sights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't what she had in mind when he'd mentioned he'd take her to "see the sights."

Khalid doesn’t let go of her arm even when they make it to the marketplace. Sothis is having the time of her life—or is it her afterlife?—giggling away at the way he keeps her from retaining their usual distance. Byleth knows it’s because he doesn’t trust her. She doesn’t blame him.

But the Almyran marketplace is crowded and noisy and if he didn’t force her to walk at his side, she would have gotten lost. It reminds her of the expansive halls of the palace, but with far more people. She’s almost grateful to him for keeping her close.

There are all sorts on the streets, from young kids running around playing what looks like tag to elderly couples haggling with merchants. There is a group of women in thin dresses speaking hurriedly to a haggard looking merchant, trying to wave them off while they continue to press him. She tries to see what it is they’re trying to buy, but there are too many for her to see around them.

“Beads, probably.” She looks up at Khalid. “They’re young, they’re probably looking for beads to make into jewelry for men they’re interested in.”

_“Sounds like fun.”_ She refrains from telling Sothis to be quiet. _“I don’t think you’re ready for that yet.”_ Byleth frowns, taking a quick peek over her shoulder at the women. _“I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”_ She’s not sure what she’s meant to figure out.

There’s a short chuckle from Khalid. “This way. We’re heading to the back alley, got a delivery I’m meant to pick up.”

She doesn’t question it.

They weave through the crowd toward the edges of the bazaar, heading to the darker alleyways the majority of people are avoiding. Khalid tenses as they near the alley, looking around more often. The colorful tents are gone, the bustle of the streets is all but a dull roar as they slowly make their way through the backstreets of the Almyran market.

Without warning, Khalid stops and lets go of her arm. She looks up curiously.

“Do not call me Khalid here.” Her brow knits into a frown; she’s never said his name at all. Why should she change that now? “It’d be better if you didn’t speak at all, but… he might ask about you. How good are you at lying?”

“What should I be lying about?” Her answer must not be what he’s expecting, because he looks at her as if she’s joking. “You don’t want me telling them I’m your bodyguard?”

“That would be best.”

She nods, understanding. “Then I’m not your bodyguard.” He lifts an eyebrow. “I’m an associate.” Something glints behind his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips at the word. “Business partner?” Khalid snorts.

“Associate is fine.”

The smile doesn’t quite light up his eyes, but it’s almost genuine this time. She’s humored him in some way. He turns away before she can see if he’s started laughing. She follows as he heads further down the darker alley. She didn’t know it was possible, but she misses the sights and sounds of the bazaar. She has been in worse places, but the enclosed space of the alley makes her feel claustrophobic. She sticks close to Khalid.

He stops near the end of the street, knocking once at a dark wood door he’d stopped at. There’s no sign. “What is this place?” There is a hoarse call from inside and Khalid pushes open the door for her.

The scent of herbs hits her immediately; she refuses to give into her body’s desire to cough and steps inside. Khalid follows, closing the door behind them. A bearded middle-aged man smiles at them from behind a counter, waving at Khalid. His hair is streaked gray, signs of premature aging. His hands shake slightly, something like a chronic tremor. Byleth has seen that before, but she’s not sure where.

“Ah, my friend!” he chuckles, stepping around with his arms spread wide.

Khalid greets him with a hug and a laugh of his own. “Mehran, my friend, it has been a long time!” Byleth watches in fascination. He almost sounds like he means it. “I apologize for not coming sooner. I’ve been quite… _busy_.”

The man—Mehran—steps back with a laugh. He nods at Byleth. “Busy, hm?” She frowns as Sothis cackles. She hears the implication, though she doesn’t quite understand it. “How delicate of you.”

Khalid grins, and when he looks down at Byleth there is a question in his eyes. _Care to deny it?_ She glares at him. “Mehran, allow me to introduce my newest associate. You can call her Azar.” She doesn’t question why he doesn’t use her real name, he’d asked her not to call him by his own. Anonymity is important here. Mehran, however, lifts an eyebrow and crosses his arms.

“She’s not Almyran, Claude.” She hides her surprise at the name used. A very Fódlani sounding name. “But I won’t question it. After all, you are not using your Almyran name.” Mehran raises his hands in mock defeat. “Perhaps I shall know it one day, but today is not that day it seems!” The man turns with a heavy sigh. “I have your shipment in the back. Do take the time to look around the rest of my stock, should something catch your eye!”

Khalid says nothing, and Byleth doesn’t move from her spot beside him. As he’d suggested earlier, she’s decided not to speak unless spoken to. It will be easier to keep up her… _cover_ if she remains quiet.

That does not stop Khalid from turning to her. “You could have denied it,” he says quietly. She shrugs in response. “Why didn’t you?”

“I’m very blunt.”

_“That is an understatement.”_ She wishes she could silence the incessant chattering of this girl in her head. _“You should learn manners. Would you speak that way to your father?”_ No, but there would be no reason for her to. They communicate through actions, not words. _“Would you speak that way to your mother, then?”_ Byleth wouldn’t know. She thinks she and her mother would have communicated very much like she and her father do.

No words necessary.

Khalid’s thoughtful hum breaks her thoughts and silences Sothis. “That is, sadly, very true.” He taps his chin, face carefully blank as he stares her down. “If you are going to be here a while, we should probably fix that.” She doesn’t get a chance to ask what he means. Khalid turns at the sound of Mehran’s return, smiling that fake smile once more. “That took longer than I expected, my friend. Find something else back there for me?”

Mehran chuckles, running a shaky hand through his graying hair. “Just remembering where I placed it, my friend. No worries, it is all here.” He holds out a small box to the prince. “As deadly as the name it is given. Careful with this one, my friend.” Khalid takes the box, sliding the lid open to inspect whatever is inside before nodding to Mehran. “You are an odd one. Not many know of this particular strand.”

That fake smile finds its way onto Khalid’s lips again and he claps a hand on Mehran’s shoulder. “Ah, but I am not one of those _many_ , my friend.” Mehran chuckles. “Take care. Should I require your services again, I shall return.” He glances once at Byleth before grinning and winking at the man. “And perhaps Azar will, too.”

It is posed as a statement, but there’s more of a question to it than Mehran catches. Byleth doesn’t miss it and eyes Khalid carefully.

Mehran is laughing again, waving them both goodbye as they turn to leave. She at least manages a small nod in his direction before they step outside, but she turns her attention to Khalid when they are far enough away and the smile has left his face. He doesn’t seem intent on telling her what the box is, so she ventures a guess and says, “An apothecary?” It is less a question and more of a statement, the opposite of his previous statement. “What does an Almyran prince need to visit an apothecary for?”

It is probably the most she has ventured to say on her own since being assigned with guard duty. She wonders how she ended up with this detail and thinks her father must have been pulling on her leg in an attempt at a joke.

If it was a joke, she doesn’t find it funny.

Khalid stops and looks down at her. The smile is missing, but that mask he likes to hide himself behind has fallen into place. She dislikes the mask. She can’t read him this way, and she bases everything she does around how well she can read someone’s actions. He is… an anomaly. She doesn’t like anomalies.

Coming to some sort of conclusion, the prince looks away and links his arm with hers once more. “Maybe I’ll fill you in when we return.” They step out of the shadowy alley and into the bright multicolored bazaar once more.

The noise breaks her concentration and pulls her attention to the crowd, away from her charge. It’s overpowering.

_“This place is certainly lively. I quite enjoy this part of Almyra! Perhaps the prince would be willing to show us—well,_ you _—around the town. ‘See the sights,’ as he’d put it!”_

Byleth isn’t sure she wants him to. No matter how much she’d missed the colors and noise when they’d stepped into the darkness of the alleyway, she hadn’t missed it so much that she’d forcibly remain in such a place for more than a few more minutes. It’s too much for her senses, and it’s hard to tell what is and is not a threat.

“Scared of the crowd, are we?” he whispers. She glares back. “You’re squeezing my arm.”

Embarrassed, she loosens her grip. She doesn’t apologize, it’s awkward enough knowing he’d noticed and she hadn’t. This kind of place is not normal for her, it’s only natural that she’s wary of them. And there are too many places she can’t keep an eye on. Her job is to protect him, and the crowd and noises and colors and bustle make that difficult.

And yet, through the haze of sensory overload, Byleth stops and turns.

Something—some _one_ —has attracted her attention, pulled her senses away from the crowd and Khalid and toward the sound of a young girl’s voice. There’s something… something about the sound… something _familiar_ … like Sothis’ had been.

_“Like me? I should be insulted, but I do believe you’re correct.”_ Khalid says something, but she is slipping her arm out of his before he can stop her. _“I should warn you against leaving the prince behind. What if he is attacked while you are hunting down this mystery girl?”_

Byleth doesn’t have to worry about that, she knows he can hold his own. And something tells her that he is following close behind.

She weaves through the crowd, the sound of the voice growing louder as she gets closer. Who is it? Who is this person she knows but doesn’t know? It is coming from the produce area of the marketplace, the smell of freshly sliced fruit and people carrying baskets of vegetables her only clue as to where she is headed.

Byleth stops in front of the fruit stall, staring at a young girl with mint green hair and eyes. The girl looks up at her with a smile, holding up a dark fruit in her hands. “Hello! Would you like to buy some of our Morfis plums?” Byleth glances back to see a man standing near the back, dark green hair and beard looking far too proper for a commoner. He holds himself with an air of dignity, though the girl seems far too childish and naive. “They may be a bit on the sweet side, but they are quite lovely when baked into a pie!” Byleth turns her attention to the girl. She doesn’t have any money…

“How much?” She looks up to see Khalid at her side. She’d thought he wouldn’t be far behind.

The girl smiles widely. “For you, 50 gold pieces!” Byleth glances down at the sign. **100 gold pieces per pound**. Does she realize she is underselling her own product?

She is about to speak up when Khalid pulls out the money and hands it to the girl with a smile of his own. “We’ll take two.” The girl bounces, her green curls bouncing with her as she hands them each a plum. “Thank you very much.” He dips his head, slipping his arm around Byleth’s before dragging her away.

She looks over her shoulder, watching as the girl waves at them before she and her fruit stand fade behind the sea of people bustling about the streets once more.

Khalid’s forced sigh pulls her eyes to him. “What would your father think if he knew you’d abandoned me in the streets of Almyra?” he asks, his voice almost admonishing as he shakes his head. “What if I had been attacked?”

He is teasing her.

Byleth shakes her head, looking down at the plum in her hand. “You would have been fine.” He snorts, but doesn’t deny it. They both know it’s true. And she…

She’d felt something. Their faces weren’t familiar, but their presence… they _felt_ familiar. She wishes she’d asked their names. Maybe she will come back another time.

In the back of her mind, Sothis’ fingers tap pensively against the arms of the throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cameos! We love character cameos! And yes, I did it simply so everyone could be at ease knowing both of them did not die when Rhea and the Church of Seiros fell. And what could our favorite Almyran prince have bought at the apothecary? That... shouldn't be too hard of a guess.
> 
> As always, leave a comment/feedback and if you haven't already and like the story, please leave kudos! We'll be back next week with chapter 5! ;)


	5. Step 5: match clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinners with diplomats rarely ever go splendidly. But he can at least attest to his mother's taste in clothes.

Byleth has a bad habit of staring. Khalid isn’t sure if it’s because she’s unaware she’s doing it or if it’s because she’s genuinely curious. It’s not unsettling, but having her standing at the door while he tries to work is… frustrating is not a strong enough word.

Sighing, he turns in his chair and looks at her. She holds his gaze.

“You know you can sit down.” She only blinks. He runs a hand through his unruly hair. “Would you sit down if I ordered you to?” The slightest twitch of her brow is enough of an answer.

No.

Shaking his head, he pushes the chair back and rises. “Well you can’t stay here. I need to get ready for tonight, and unless you _want_ to watch me get dressed,” he tosses her a rueful grin, “I suggest you wait outside.” She glances around the room once, brow dropping in concentration, but eventually she complies and steps outside.

Khalid deflates. It has been less than a full day and he is exhausted. Evading assassins and trying to stay alive long enough to take the throne from his father is nothing compared to dealing with her. He’s not even sure if it’s because he has to fill the void with his own voice. He’s debating if he made the right choice in asking her father to loan her to him as a personal bodyguard. Her odd silence drives him crazy. The first few times he could wave away, believing it was because she didn’t have much to say. But having spent an entire day with the Ashen Demon as a traveling companion, he thinks there’s more to it.

He had asked for her because he wanted to unravel her mysteries, but _doing so_ is mentally draining in a way nothing else is. Grueling matches with Nader and extensive tactical studies were nothing when he thinks of the enigma that is Byleth Eisner.

Shaking his head, Khalid runs a hand over his face. He frowns at the scruffy feeling of his beard. _I should trim it. Seems I’ve let it get too wild._ He snatches the robe hanging up and heads for his bathroom. It’s not what he wants to wear, but he’s sure his father would disapprove if he came in wearing commoner’s clothing. And he’s at least fifty percent positive a scolding would be in store afterward. If not by his father, then certainly by his mother. He’s meant to look as presentable as the rest of his siblings during this meeting with the Goneril diplomat.

Even if it might be a waste of time…

Diplomats have come to negotiate with them before, all turned away. His father isn’t open to negotiations with Fódlan while his own children are trying to kill him.

A knock on his door turns his attention away from the sash he is pulling over his head. “Are you decent?” He almost laughs. “Doesn’t matter, I’m coming in anyway.” He shakes his head and turns back to the mirror as the door opens. His mother, an imposing woman who fills a room with her presence, steps in. “Oh good, you are decent.” He glances sideways at her, setting his knife down before he can cut himself shaving. “Though I was half expecting…” she trails off and gestures at his robe. “Well, I was expecting better, honestly.”

Khalid scoffs. “I would have, but I doubt Father would approve of my idea of _better_.” She hums, nodding. “Did you need something?”

She smiles and pats his cheek. “Only to let you know the diplomat is here.” He frowns. “An interesting choice by Goneril, sending his laziest child to us this time.” Khalid’s eyes narrow. “Ah, and I’m going to be borrowing your lovely bodyguard for a bit. She should be presentable as well, don’t you think?”

_That_ catches his attention.

“Good luck convincing her.”

His mother smiles. People wonder where he gets his mask from; she stands before him with all the falsities she taught to him. “Oh, my dear boy, I think you should know that I am _quite_ the convincing one when given the chance.” Khalid grimaces. “You should…” she trails off with another wave of her hands towards his outfit. “ _Change_. This does _nothing_ for you.”

She pats his cheek, half a threat lingering in her fingers before she turns away.

“And try not to be late!”

He waits until she is gone before groaning and throwing off the sash and robe. He dislikes that she’s right, and that she had to practically threaten him to dress better to get him to realize it. Traditional garb or not, he’s not wearing a stuffy robe made for pomps and pricks.

He’ll leave that for his siblings.

By the time he has found something that is _not_ a robe made for royalty, he is sure he’s late. Byleth is not waiting for him, but Jeralt is. While his mother is short and imposing, Jeralt is tall and intimidating. The man could snap him in two if he’d wanted. The only thing stopping him, Khalid thinks, is the fact that protecting him is the mercenary’s job.

Oddly enough, Jeralt is dressed for the occasion. He is wearing Fódlani clothes rather than Almyran, but they are fancy enough to pass for anyone who is not royalty.

The Blade Breaker gives him a once over before grunting. “Not exactly the right kind of look for an Almyran prince.”

He’s not wrong. What he is wearing is far from the average look an Almyran prince should be wearing to a diplomatic talk. He’s wearing the outfit a Barbarossa would during wartimes. But, given his mother’s disgust for his former look, he isn’t sure anything other than this would suit her… particular tastes. His mother is a force to be reckoned with, and seeing her son in something as silly as an Almyran robe made for the likes of his half-siblings is nothing short of a sign of weakness in her eyes. And her unspoken threat had been enough to keep him from changing a third time.

Khalid snorts, taking the lead toward the dining hall. “It’s a good thing I’m not only beholden to Almyran conduct.” Jeralt snorts, his only indication that he knows what the prince means. “I guess my mother or Byleth asked you to take over?”

“Something like that.” Jeralt is eyeing him. He’s not sure why, but the man’s scrutinous gaze _is_ unsettling. Unlike his daughter’s frustrating silence and staring, the Blade Breaker’s stony glare is almost like an unsaid threat. Khalid would hate to be in a fight with him. Ever. “If you want her to open up, you should try asking her for a sparring session.”

The prince doesn’t say anything, instead looks over his shoulder to see the man has the same impassive stare his daughter does. (Or maybe that is the other way around?)

“I don’t know what you mean.” It’s a lie, and not one of his best. But it is the end to the conversation. Jeralt says nothing, choosing to scoff. Khalid hadn’t bothered to make up a fancy tale, it would have been a waste. Disliking the silence, Khalid changes the subject and asks, “Did you truly earn your title during your time as the captain of the Knights of Seiros?”

Jeralt’s hum sounds more like a growl, but he nods. “I was a younger man then… reckless and foolish. But that is where it started.” Khalid looks over, wondering if the man will continue speaking if he sees interest in the story. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it some other time I take over my daughter’s duties. For now,” he nods ahead of them, “you have some diplomats and a family dinner to attend.” Jeralt halts abruptly, leaving Khalid to turn away and enter the dining hall on his own.

His siblings are already seated in their usual places; Esfir sits on the left-hand side of their father, Bahadur seated directly beside her while Feroze sits across from Bahadur. His mother sits to his father’s right, the seat to her right left empty for him.

But his attention turns to the shadow lingering behind his empty seat; Byleth, in a dress clearly borrowed from his mother, stands in the back. The golden cloak draping down her shoulders complements the dark gray of the dress she wears. The golden beads draped around her neck are too much. Pearls would fit better—

She frowns when she realizes he is staring, but he only smiles back and her frown turns into the blank glare she has used throughout the entire day.

“And here is my youngest,” his father says, breaking him out of his thoughts. A smile finds its way to his lips. “I’m sure he has a good reason for being late.”

Khalid looks from his father to the guests sitting on the other end of the table. There are only three of them; a woman about his age with long pink hair, a broad-chested man whose attention has been solely on Khalid’s mother the entire time, and some inconspicuous soldier who was not prepared for the heat of Almyra.

“Apologies,” he says, dipping his head to the Fódlani diplomats. “I was told my attire was… unsuitable. Had to make a wardrobe adjustment in a few short moments.”

His eyes shift to his mother, who suppresses a smile but manages a small nod of approval in his direction. He’d ask, but he thinks he knows why she told him to change.

It has not escaped his notice that he and Byleth are practically matching.

His Barbarossa garb and her dress match. There’s something strangely satisfying about the fact his mother had known he’d choose this rather than one of the many royal robes to wear. And as soon as Bahadur—whose eyes have been on Byleth almost as long as the broad-chested Fódlani has been staring at Khalid’s mother—he immediately pales and turns his attention to the diplomats instead. Satisfaction is not a strong enough feeling.

Khalid turns his attention to the diplomats as the woman clears her throat.

“Should probably start with introductions, right?” Inexperienced. That is the first thing he picks up from her. “I’m Hilda Valentine Goneril, and this is Balthus von Albrecht.” Her lack of introduction for the soldier is enough indication that he is not one of the diplomats but their bodyguard. Balthus, however, might have been enough of a bodyguard for both of them. “I was sent on behalf of King Dimitri von Blaiddyd to negotiate a peace treaty between our two nations. I understand you sent every diplomat back with… less than an answer.”

Khalid smiles to himself.

“King Arash,” Hilda continues, “the king of Fódlan would like to know where you stand.” His father lifts an eyebrow at the statement. “King Dimitri is currently dealing with Albinea, as they are closest to his own home of Faerghus. When Emperor Edelgard passed on, she left the unification of Fódlan to him. This included all peace treaties with other nations, such as Almyra, Albinea, Morfis, and Sreng. Other diplomats have been sent out to these nations in hopes of brokering peace between us and them, but as far as we’ve gotten with nations such as Sreng and Morfis, we have yet to hear anything from your own.”

His father hums, nodding even as Khalid sees him thinking it over. The Goneril girl is strangely eloquent despite her supposed laziness.

He’ll have to remind himself to ask his mother how she knew later. Nothing about her screams lazy.

“I shall say the same thing to you as I said to them; until I know the people of Fódlan will keep their politics to themselves and wish only to foster peace, I shall not answer.” His father shrugs. “As far as Almyra knows, you Fódlani have been ruthlessly killing us at Fódlan’s Throat for years now. It has become a sport to many now, seeing if they can spark the Fódlani army to action before they wear them down.” There’s a hint of pride in his father’s voice. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a vague memory of a story telling of his father’s younger years rattles around. He’d been there once, right alongside Nader. “How do we know your King Dimitri is any better than Archbishop Rhea? We have no reason to believe he will be until we see proof.”

Hilda Goneril bites her lip, glancing at Balthus for help, but the man is entirely too distracted. Khalid glances to his mother, but her eyes have gone cold as she glares the man down.

Another thing he will have to ask her about.

Before anyone can say more, servants carrying trays of food arrive and set out their dinner. His father smiles; when Khalid had been younger, he would have thought the coldness in his heart had only come from his mother. Now that he is older, he knows better.

His father’s eyes are far from hospitable, carefully placed wariness etched into his dark gaze as he waves to the feast before them.

“You are guests, and we shall welcome you for as long as you are here. Please, enjoy. This feast is in your honor, and perhaps we shall continue our talks of peace later in the week.” Hilda glances from the Almyran king to Balthus, then, strangely, to Khalid and the shadow behind him.

Smiling weakly, she nods and thanks them for their hospitality.

She mutters something everyone else misses, but Khalid is paying enough attention to hear.

_“I told Holst this was a bad idea… wish he’d listened to me for once.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s Friday, which means it’s time for the next chapter! Though, with how fast I’m writing, I might be tempted to post every Wednesday and Friday? Unsure, we’ll see what happens.
> 
> So I know Hilda seems a little out of character, but that's mostly because I'm trying to portray her as she would have been without Claude around while also keeping her lackadaisical personality. And she has to keep up appearances as best as possible, because failing while being counted on are her worst fears. (Which I totally understand, me too, hon.) Hilda is a smart girl, she just has far too many reasons to be lazy. But we love her, she’s a good girl who only deserves the best. 
> 
> Oh gosh, _PLEASE_ leave me feedback on this one! Is Jeralt okay?


	6. Step 6: make new friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She _told_ him she wasn't ready for this! If only he'd listened...

She’d _told_ him not to count on her. She’d _told_ him and he _hadn’t_ listened.

Groaning, Hilda flops down on the bed and buries her head in the pillow. Stupid Holst, sending her here when he should have done it himself! Better yet, King Dimitri should have sent someone like Sylvain or Ingrid here!

Except Sylvain is off in Sreng and Ingrid is there keeping him out of trouble… so they were out of the question.

And Holst was looking after Goneril territory, still picking up the pieces after the incidents with Those Who Slither in the Dark. Bunch of creeps hiding out in their territory for all those years, it was freaky! Unfortunately, that had kept him from making this particular journey on his own. She’s sure he would have enjoyed it here. Maybe he would have run into Nader the Undefeated and they would have become the best of drinking pals?

But it isn’t Holst stuck with diplomacy, it’s _her_.

What she wouldn’t give to be back home…

Balthus isn’t helpful, he’s more of a bodyguard than a diplomat. Or maybe _babysitter_ is a better term. She knows her brother sent Balthus with her because of their longstanding friendship, but she’d wished there’d at least been _someone_ with diplomacy skills. Groaning loudly into the pillow, Hilda forces herself off the (strangely fluffy) bed and hurries to check her makeup. Thankfully, it hasn’t smeared.

Deciding she has to try a new tactic, Hilda hurries out of the guest room she’d been granted and heads down the halls of the Almyran palace. She doesn’t know where she’s going, but she thinks she’ll know it when she’s there.

Or, if she’s lucky, someone will find her before she gets lost…

_Should’ve brought the soldier with me._

What was his name again? Was it Aaron? No, that doesn’t sound right. Oh well, she can’t remember. It’s unimportant, wasting time finding him would only have been a disadvantage. And bringing Balthus was out of the question. He’d spent the entirety of dinner staring at King Arash’s wife. She doesn’t know why—okay, she _does_ —but she’s not about to question him about it. There are more important things to worry about!

Like keeping herself from looking like a failure on her first diplomatic mission.

She’d warned him not to rely on her. If this goes poorly, she’s blaming it on Holst. His dumb little speech about how he _believed_ in her and how he _knew_ she could do it, _ugh!_ Brothers… always expecting so much from their baby sisters. It was frustrating how much faith he put in her. She tried to seem as lazy as possible to avoid these kinds of things from happening, but _no_ , he just _had_ to sweet talk her into being the next diplomat to Almyra.

Frustrated, and not paying nearly enough attention, Hilda almost runs into one of the Almyran princes while she mutters to herself. A dark shadow passes in front of her and she is suddenly pinned to the wall, dark blue eyes glaring into her soul. She gulps.

It takes her a moment to realize this is the woman who had been standing behind the prince who had been late. She hadn’t caught her name or his, he hadn’t introduced himself. Had his father? If he had been, she doesn’t remember. Then again, pinned to the wall like this, she can’t remember much more than to squeak her surprise.

“She’s not a threat.” The woman steps back and Hilda sinks to the floor. “Sorry about that.” She looks up to see the prince extending a hand to her. “Byleth is apparently an overeager bodyguard.” He flashes a look at the woman, but she makes no move to say anything in her defense. His attention returns to Hilda and he smiles. “You’re the Goneril diplomat, right? Hilda Valentine Goneril?”

She nods, taking his hand. She’s too stunned to say anything.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Prince Khalid, but you can just call me Khalid. And you’ve just met Byleth Eisner.” Hilda frowns, looking up at the two before nodding slowly again. “Where were you going? The guest rooms are behind you.”

“Ah…” Yes, she knew that. She sighs, deflating. He’s speaking too casually for her to keep up the act. “I don’t know, guess I was just wandering.” She glances between the prince and his bodyguard before realizing that she had _found_ someone. She’d been looking for someone to speak with, and she’d run right into an Almyran prince and his bodyguard. Maybe her luck wasn’t running out after all!

“You have no idea how to be a diplomat… do you?” Hilda blinks and stares up at Khalid. “Do you have _anything_ you could possibly use to persuade my father that King Dimitri wants peace with Almyra?”

The answer would be no. A hard no.

“A letter from his _Royal Highness_ doesn’t count, does it?”

Khalid snorts. “No, not really.” He crosses his arms, frowning at her. “You’re the younger sister of General Holst, right? Shouldn’t you have known that Almyrans value skills and actions more than words and paper?”

Hilda snorts. “Aren’t you the youngest son of King Arash? Shouldn’t you know that the daughter of the former Duke Goneril is the laziest and least qualified for this job?” She cocks an eyebrow, matching his stance with one of her own. “And here I thought Almyrans were smart.”

The prince scoffs and shakes his head. “Don’t know where you heard that, but that’s far from true. I think I’m a bit of an anomaly among my people.”

Hilda thinks that might be the truest thing he’s said to her so far. Still, the fact that he is willing to speak to her is a plus. Maybe hope isn’t completely lost. She doesn’t get her hopes up, though. It could all crash and burn on her sooner or later.

“Why not challenge someone to a duel to show your resolve?”

Hilda blinks, her attention drawn to the formerly silent bodyguard. Byleth, that was the name Khalid had used. The prince is looking at her, too, something like surprise and fascination etched on his face.

“You said the Almyrans are more prone to listen through actions,” Byleth explains simply. “A duel is an action, and if you challenge someone to a duel to prove your resolve, then the king would be more inclined to listen.” Hilda thinks she’s going to be sick. “You don’t have to challenge the king, but you should challenge someone. If you are here to persuade them that peace is possible, you should do whatever it takes to show them you’re serious.” She looks up at Khalid, only then realizing his eyes are wide as he stares at her. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, just… surprised.” Byleth looks away, and Hilda thinks there’s something akin to satisfaction at this answer. “She is right, however. Challenging someone to a duel to show your resolve would be a good way of showing my father that you’re serious.”

Hilda grimaces. “Ew, yeah, um… I don’t _do_ dueling.” She gestures at herself. “Not exactly _my_ thing. _None_ of this is really _my_ thing.” Khalid and Byleth make faces at her. She’s not sure how two entirely different people have the same look, but they are looking at her with the same expression and it’s almost annoying. Adorable, definitely, but annoying. “I’m kinda more of a fashion and artsy kinda person, y’know! I’m really only here because my brother couldn’t be. Just… kind of filling in!”

Byleth glances up at Khalid, who, for whatever reason, seems to understand some unspoken question. “There is a way you don’t have to fight and could just issue the challenge. In this instance, you’d pick someone to be your champion and then my father would pick his champion. Most likely, he’d choose Nader to be his champion. It’s really more for sport like this, but it could still get your point across. So long as you talk it over with that Balthus guy beforehand and he understands it’s for diplomacy and not for show.”

Hilda is about to ask why he’d mention Balthus, but she stops herself when she realizes there were only three of them. _Should have brought more people…_

Curious, Hilda narrows her eyes and stares at the prince. “Why are you telling me this?”

A smile she’d almost call snake-like lifts his lips upward. “I have reasons. And peace with Fódlan seems like a pretty ideal step in the right direction.” She tips her head, but she doesn’t get a chance to question him about it. Khalid turns and waves. “It’s getting late, Hilda Goneril. You should probably sleep on the idea and make a formal announcement in at least two days’ time.”

Byleth nods curtly before turning sharply on her heel and following behind the prince.

Hilda isn’t sure why, but she thinks she’s just made two new friends in this strange place. Maybe she’d have something to write to him if he decided to send her letters during her time in Almyra.

Or maybe she won’t. Maybe she’ll decide after she’s slept on whatever has just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back! So I’ve decided to post every Tuesday and Friday, which will definitely speed things up. I’ve got a bunch of chapters laying around because I’ve written so much, so twice a week will work out better than once.
> 
> Also... Hilda POV! I hope I got her down, ugh just end me now. Writing characters that aren't mine is just so funky. But, blessedly, I can understand Hilda because I have two older brothers who act EXACTLY like Holst. And, yes, older brothers really do fawn over their baby sisters in the way Hilda describes.
> 
> Leave feedback, or just comment to comment! And if you haven't, leave kudos if you like the story!


	7. Step 7: train together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd known she was strong, but he hadn't realized just _how_ strong.

A few days with Byleth keeping him out of trouble is enough time for him to become far too accustomed to her presence. His hair almost stands on end whenever she’s elsewhere, replaced by her father most of the time or some inconspicuous mercenary he has not taken the time to learn the name of.

Khalid doesn’t like the development. His mother, on the other hand, finds it incredibly amusing. She finds time to ask him all about his shadow whenever they have tea. She lets him know just how _much_ she likes the woman as his bodyguard every chance she gets.

She proposed the idea of him marrying her once, something he frowned at.

“For a woman feared even by her husband, you seem to have quite the fanciful romantic inclination,” he says as he rises. She grins, a wicked twinkling in her eyes as she sips the native Almyran tea. “I’m not looking for someone to marry right now. Been a _bit_ busy trying to stay alive while the others kill each other.”

She sighs wistfully, setting her tea down. “And once you survive, what then? Will you be able to kill your father to take what is yours?” He hums. “Abdication is not his style, Khalid.”

Unfortunately, he knows this is true. His father is as stubborn as he is. His mother is the only one who outranks them in this trait. She could face down a Duscur bear or an Oghman wolverine and not flinch when they charged. Tiana von Riegan is a force to be reckoned with. He’s glad he is her son and not her enemy.

“So long as I can stay out of trouble, I don’t think I’ll have much of an issue there. It’s Esfir I’m worried about. She’s too careful to fall for any of my schemes. Nothing like Arman and Nadia had been.” He rests his cheek against his knuckle, lost in thought.

Arman had been too easy. He’d killed his brother when they’d been fourteen, mostly out of self-preservation at the time. He’d earned recognition among his siblings as a threat upon Arman’s death. When Nadia had died from poisoning… well, no one had taken credit for it, and he thinks they had known it had been him. How old had he been then? He thinks he was sixteen.

He can’t count Daria, she had been an accident. He still remembers the odd way the arrow protruded from her neck and the blood bubbling from her mouth as she choked.

She is the only one who haunts him. She had replaced Adel.

“Why not send one of the mercenaries to take care of her?” Khalid snorts at the suggestion and looks at his mother. She knows it’s a foolish thought, waving her hands in surrender. “Well, they are at least good at keeping you alive. I should thank them for that.” He huffs a breathy laugh. “Speaking of, you should probably leave soon. You have training with Nader, don’t you? Shouldn’t keep the Undefeated waiting.”

He smiles, truly smiles, and nods. “Wouldn’t want that. He’s quite irate when I show up late.” He plants a soft kiss to the top of her head before leaving. Byleth stands nearby, watching him as always.

“Your mother is… an interesting character.” He blinks, confused by the statement. She doesn’t explain, however, and falls into step beside him. “Your instructor, Nader… would he be interested in dueling me?” Khalid looks down at her. “I don’t want to get rusty. There are only so many times I can train with my father while watching you.” He nods slowly, understanding the implication.

Guarding him keeps her from training as she normally would. She doesn’t want to fall behind in her abilities, despite her duty of guarding him. She may be as alert as ever—maybe more so now—but she does not want to lose what makes her a feared mercenary.

“I’m sure he’d leap at the chance to duel you. As would I, if given the chance.”

She glances sideways at him, and if he thought he saw something close to admiration in her gaze it is gone too quickly for him to mention it. Her response is a short nod in his direction.

He’s not sure why, but the nod makes him smile. He smothers it quickly, plastering the mask on as they pass by the stables and head for the training grounds. Nader is already there, swinging a large broadsword as easily as any other wyvern rider would swing an axe. The man grins, stabbing the sword into the ground as he heads for Khalid and Byleth. “Good to see your bodyguard keeps you on time to our training sessions!” He wraps Khalid in a fierce hug, nearly crushing the air out of the prince’s lungs, before practically dropping him and turning his attention to Byleth. “Nice to finally meet the famed Ashen Demon. Name’s Nader.”

He extends his arm to her, to which she nods and accepts with her own. His hand nearly envelops her bicep, her own hand being far too small to wrap even halfway around his arm. The action itself is all that matters, however, and Nader’s smile widens further.

“The pleasure is mine. Nice to meet you.”

The Almyran general laughs loudly, withdrawing his arms as he rests his knuckles against his hips. “I like this one, kid! She’s a keeper!” He claps a hand on the prince’s shoulder before turning to pick up a practice sword.

Khalid rolls his eyes, turning and shedding the light overcoat he’d been wearing inside. His one-sleeved shirt mirrors Nader’s, a common style among the Almyran people. The arm covered by the sleeve is typically the dominant arm, the one within reach of an opponent’s attack. The sleeve—armored in combat—keeps said arm from damage, whereas the sleeveless side is free of any extra weight, allowing a soldier to wield slightly heavier weapons as a means of counterattack.

Truthfully, Khalid thinks it is impractical. Why not armor both arms in something light so they are both protected and free to move without fear of one being lopped off by an enemy attack? But Almyrans are nothing if not daring people. He thinks too much about the consequences, a “flaw” of his (according to Nader).

“Hope you haven’t been slacking for the past few days, kid. Wouldn’t want you losing in front of your bodyguard.”

Why that would make a difference, Khalid isn’t sure. Rather, he knows _why_ Nader said it, but he isn’t sure _why_ the man and his mother are fixated on the mercenary. Byleth, graciously, says nothing to Nader’s bold implication (she probably missed it) and instead sits on the sidelines to watch. She tucks her knees up to her chest, turning her eyes to the prince expectantly.

“Let’s get to it, kid! Hope you don’t disappoint.”

Nader grins and lunges for him in an attempt to catch him off guard. With the experience of being light on his feet for years, Khalid is easily able to dodge to the left while parrying the blow. It doesn’t faze Nader’s onslaught, his heavier build enough to drive the prince back into a defensive position. After years of training with him, Khalid is loath to admit that he has yet to see what the man’s fatal mistake could be. He relies heavily on his larger build to intimidate, but he is faster than he looks and is capable of wielding his speed and size in tandem. Khalid, on the other hand, is slighter and, though he is lighter on his feet, does not have the battle experience Nader possesses.

But he is capable of doing something the large Almyran general cannot: Thinking on his feet.

Years of having to pay attention to stay alive has made the prince a quick study. He may not be able to win if he uses pure physical skill, but if he can think of a way around Nader’s defenses, he might have a shot to at _least_ bring him down for a few moments. That will be enough.

Nader swings heavily, a move Khalid must block lest he trip over his own feet. He curses inwardly. _Too much thinking, wasn’t paying attention._ Nader smirks and shifts his weight, forcing the prince lower to the ground. Khalid _refuses_ to kneel. Snarling, he shoves Nader back enough to allow him to drop to the ground on his hands. He sweeps a leg under the general, sending the man sprawling onto his back—the bigger they are, the harder they fall, he thinks briefly. Khalid quickly seizes the opening and brings the training sword down to Nader’s throat. The Almyran general chuckles.

“Nicely played, kiddo!” Khalid snorts, extending a hand to the man. He sees the mischievous twinkle in Nader’s eyes too late, yelping in surprise as the man snatches his hand and drags him to the ground. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: Never let your guard down!” He pins Khalid under a bulky arm, laughing heartily at the prince’s muffled protest.

“That was dirty…” the prince grumbles.

“Nothing dirty in fighting, kid. Ya gotta predict your enemies’ movements, and if they surprise ya, surprise ‘em right back!” Khalid sighs heavily, but relents and nods. Chuckling, but satisfied, Nader releases him and helps the breathless prince to his feet. “Smart move using my weight against me. You catch on faster than your brother, that’s for sure.”

“Most people catch on faster than Feroze, that’s not much of a compliment.” Nader hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Anyway, how about you fight someone who you _haven’t_ had the pleasure of training yourself?” Khalid looks at Byleth, who, for once, looks thoroughly amused by this interaction. “Give me a chance to catch my breath and assess whether I chose the right bodyguard.”

Nader can’t help the giddy boy-like grin that splits across his face. “Gladly!”

Byleth rises, setting her sword down to pick out a practice sword from the barrel just outside the training ring. Khalid, stopping as she passes him, whispers, “Dare you to impress me.” She glances back at him, but says nothing and turns her attention on Nader.

Khalid takes the seat Byleth had left unoccupied, already amused at the size difference.

Nader, massive and hulking, looks like he could eat three Byleths. But it doesn’t bother the mercenary, her stance easy and relaxed as she readies herself. Nader, for all his love of humor, eases into a stance of his own. He is not as fast as Khalid, which means he is far slower than Byleth, but his shear size and power might be enough for them to be evenly matched.

It is not until Byleth makes the first move, dashing forward with a speed Khalid has never seen before, that he realizes Nader might not be much of a match for the mercenary after all.

She lunges at Nader, a move he barely blocks in time, but the parry does nothing to deter her as she pivots on her toes and slices at the man’s exposed right side. Seeing what is happening, Nader jumps back enough to avoid the slash. It is not fast enough to stop Byleth from racing toward him, leaping into the air and driving her left knee into his chest. Khalid would have missed the next few seconds if he’d blinked.

Byleth, knee rammed into Nader’s chest, grabs his sword arm by the wrist. It is then, with his arm unable to move in any substantial direction, that she wraps her free leg around his nondominant arm. With the momentum her knee had created driving them both to the ground, and Nader’s arms unable to stop her, she presses the tip of the training sword to his throat. “Yield.” They collapse to the ground, the wind knocked out of Nader as his back hits the ground for a second time.

Unlike Khalid, Byleth does not let him go until the man drops his sword and opens his palms in surrender. “I yield.” She doesn’t move for a few moments, eyeing him carefully, but when she feels the fight go out of him she finally releases him and stands. Nader huffs, sitting up and leaning back on his hands. “I can see why they call you the Ashen Demon. You’re certainly not someone I’d want to have as an enemy.”

Khalid stares at Byleth, watching as she returns the training sword to the barrel. He’s never seen someone take Nader the Undefeated down that quickly before, and he has watched his own father spar with the renowned general. Not even his _mother_ , a true demon queen on the battlefield, has been able to take down Nader that fast.

Who _is_ this woman?

Nader, still catching his breath, nods over at Khalid. “It’s a good thing you’ve got her looking out for you, kid. Don’t get on her bad side.”

He hadn’t been planning on it.

Khalid glances up as Byleth comes back to pick up her sword. “I’m wondering if I should be taking lessons from you,” he muses casually. She frowns at the statement, about to remind him that she is only there to keep him out of trouble, but he waves his hand and gets to his feet. “It’s a joke. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to stay longer than you’re needed.”

Byleth tips her head, obviously unsure of what he’s talking about.

But Khalid can’t help himself from saying, “Next time, I definitely call sparring with you instead of the big guy,” as he turns to leave the training grounds. Byleth, his ever-present shadow, follows in her typical silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title _might_ be misleading, sorry about that. I just really wanted to satisfy this idea that Byleth could take down Nader in seconds, because we all know she's a total badass. She didn't get that nickname of hers by being nice (though she didn't really get it from being mean, either, but that's besides the point).
> 
> So here we are with chapter 7! Chapter 8 will be up on Tuesday, the 23rd, so hold on through the weekend! This is the slowest of slow burns, but I've been having fun and I think that's really all that matters. And thank you so much to everyone who's left comments and kudos, it really makes me happy to know that you all like this. And thanks for sticking with the story!
> 
> If you're new here and want to leave feedback or just want to comment, please do so! And if you like it and haven't already, leave kudos. And don't forget to bookmark and subscribe for regular updates!


	8. Step 8: meet the siblings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth does not like Khalid’s sister, and it seems the feeling is (possibly) mutual.

Byleth is heartbreakingly honest with everyone but herself. If she _were_ honest with herself, she would have realized she was getting used to Khalid’s company. _Too_ used to him. It is a forced companionship through circumstances, but she’s not sure if she’ll be the same person she had been when she leaves Almyra.

But she does enjoy his quips, his jests, and she has grown used to the fake smiles and the calculated impassivity he uses among the members of his family.

She is honest enough to acknowledge how she has come to enjoy Hilda’s companionship, and the pink-haired woman is not her charge. The measured laziness, the lackadaisical attitude she exudes, even the wistful sighs she uses when she is trying to get someone’s attention; Byleth will miss that when the Goneril diplomat leaves for Fódlan once more.

That will take some time, given the girl’s painfully obvious attempt to drag her stay in Almyra out, but once she does leave Byleth will miss her. It’s become something of a routine for her to walk with the Goneril woman while her father is taking over her post with Khalid.

It’s rare, but there are some days she wants to take for herself. And, more often than not, her father is the one who suggests she take a break.

“You’ve been… smiling a bit more,” he’d said once, looking at her curiously. “Gonna tell me what that’s about?” Having been oblivious to the fact she’d been smiling, Byleth only shrugged in response. But he’d noticed. He, unlike Byleth, is not blind and he’d seen the changes in her. “Huh.” He hadn’t said much more on the subject, and he hadn’t sounded disappointed, so she took it to mean that he wanted to see her smile more often.

But today, Byleth is without Hilda and Khalid has been passed off to one of the other mercenaries. Something about her father needing to speak with King Arash. She hadn’t asked for more information, it wasn’t necessary.

With little to do, Byleth makes her way toward the library. She’s been down this hall enough times with Khalid to know where to turn now. Though the palace is still a bit of a maze, she has memorized their most used paths and the daily routine he sticks to like a lifeline. If she were the one being targeted by assassins, she’d try to be unpredictable. Khalid, however, had said that using routes he knows better than most makes it easier to deal with assassins should they attack. She supposes it makes sense, though she would still prefer the safety of unpredictability.

It is when she reaches the outside of the library that she feels someone’s eyes on her back.

Frowning, but unsurprised, Byleth stops and turns to face her stalker. A woman with her hair twisted into a long braid stares at Byleth from a window. If she remembers correctly, it is Khalid’s older half-sister, Esfir. Her eyes are dark like their father’s, not having the pleasure of having Lady Tiana as her mother to grant her the forest green eyes Khalid was born with. Her angular face makes her look like a snake, though that could just be the feeling Byleth is getting from the woman’s watchful eyes.

_“She reminds me of a snake, too. An Almyran adder.”_

A smile, cold and detached, coils its way onto her lips as she inclines her head toward Byleth. And then she speaks, and Byleth _swears_ she can almost hear her hissing. “It’s a pleasure.” Byleth frowns. Everyone has been saying that recently. Why is it a pleasure to meet her? “So you’re the one little Khalid is so lucky to have around as his bodyguard?” Esfir looks her over once. It’s brief, but there’s something about the way she tips her head that makes Byleth want to shiver. “I hear you’re quite the capable warrior.”

“And I hear you are quite the capable schemer.” Esfir grins, but Byleth only crosses her arms over her chest. “What does my being a warrior have to do with you?”

She wants something.

Byleth has spent enough time with Khalid over the past week—has it been a week already?—to know that his family always wants something. They are all schemers, though Khalid may be the most capable of the lot. Then again, she could very well be biased.

Esfir hums, slinking toward Byleth; everything about her exudes _snake_ . Feroze is too much brawn and not enough brain; Bahadur thinks too much with the wrong head to be a threat; but _Esfir_ … she is dangerous, and Byleth can feel it. Her mere presence makes her skin crawl.

_“We should leave. Now. I don’t like how this woman is looking at you.”_

Byleth is used to being looked at like a weapon or a tool. She is even used to the stares men like Bahadur throw her way from time-to-time. It doesn’t bother her because she knows how many different ways she can cut and gut them. But the way Esfir looks at her… she looks at her like she is prey. Something she can stalk until she is ready to pounce and rip her to shreds. It is the first time someone has looked at her as though she were… _lesser_.

“You’re in a viper pit, darling girl,” Esfir whispers. “You and your father and all your little mercenary friends have walked right into a snake’s nest. It’s a wonder you’ve survived as long as you have.” Esfir circles her, those dark eyes watching her at every turn. “I’m sure you have come to understand how Almyran politics work at this point, yes?” Byleth doesn’t answer. It’s enough for the Almyran princess to chuckle and nod. “Yes, I was sure you had.” She stops behind Byleth, the cold smile whispering through her words as she hisses, “One-by-one, they’ll all drop like little flies. Caught in a spider’s web until there is only one left.”

Byleth, forcing her breath to steady, glances over her shoulder and says, “I thought you said this was a viper pit?”

Esfir laughs. It’s harsh and haunting, something Byleth is sure will chase her through the night. “Indeed I did.” She grins, teeth far too white. _Snake, snake, snake_ , is all Byleth can think as the woman moves to stand at her side. “So how would you feel if I said all the little rats in this palace will soon end up just like the siblings you never had the chance to meet?”

Byleth’s eyes narrow. She remembers thinking the table in the dining hall is far too large for six family members. There had been twice as many chairs, as though there’d been more before.

“I wouldn’t feel anything,” she says simply. “Rats are unsanitary.”

Esfir blinks, and if she is startled by the odd joke Byleth has made, she doesn’t show it. Instead, her lips curl wider and she laughs again. “You are _quite_ the interesting character. I wish Father had given you to me now. I’m sure we would have been _very_ good friends.”

_“I highly doubt that.”_ For once, Byleth appreciates Sothis’ commentary. _“She’s stalling. There’s somewhere she doesn’t want you to be.”_

Byleth frowns.

_Somewhere…? Khalid!_

She turns sharply on her heels, ignoring her desire to explore the library. “Leaving already?” She stops and looks back at Esfir. The woman makes no move to stop her, instead looking far too pleased with herself. “Remember this, Ashen Demon: We are not fighting for the king’s trust. No matter how much Father may like us, perhaps even love us, this is a fight for the throne of Almyra. His trust means very little in the end.” The implication is not lost on Byleth. “This is a viper pit, and no matter how pretty he is, Khalid is just as much a viper as the rest of us. And trust me when I say that the prettiest of vipers are the deadliest.”

Byleth looks sideways at her once, then looks away and forces herself to make her way down the hall as calmly as she can. If she runs now, she’ll give away her growing unease for Khalid.

_“Oh be reasonable, just run!”_

Sothis’ snappy voice breaks her resolve and Byleth is suddenly racing back the way she’d come. She’s never experienced tunnel vision, and she’s not exactly a one-track mind kind of person, but _something_ about how Esfir had spoken to her, how she’d done nothing but smile and vaguely threaten her, made her uneasy. Her stomach twists in knots as she turns the corner, nearly tripping over a poor servant making their way to the kitchen. She doesn’t get the chance to apologize, already back on track as she lengthens her stride and charges for the prince’s room.

It takes her less than a second to see the body of the mercenary her father had left in charge, the door slightly ajar as if someone had been too lazy to close it back. Mind screaming, Sothis berating her with it, Byleth shoves the door all the way open.

She runs right into Khalid’s chest, staggering backwards in her surprise. He catches her by the wrist before she can fall, both breathless as he steadies her and she reaches out to make sure he really is alive.

“That’s one hell of a greeting,” he manages to laugh. Byleth, shaking her head, inspects him from head to toe. Still catching her breath, Byleth circles him once to check for injuries, signs of assault, and sags a little when she finds nothing. “Um… okay then?”

“I thought…” she trails off when she notices how one of his hands is covering his hip, the knuckles white from continued pressure. She frowns, trying to push her way into his room now; he steps in front of her as if to block her. Something bubbles up in the pit of her stomach and she pushes past him. He winces. She stops halfway into the room when she sees the body clad in dark grays. “So I wasn’t wrong…” She turns to glare at him.

Khalid, leaning against the frame of his door, shrugs innocently back at her. “I don’t know why you’re scowling at _me_ . _They’re_ the assassin.” He snorts. “A piss poor one, if I’m honest.”

“They managed to wound you,” she says. “So much for _piss poor_.” He assents with a nod.

“It’s not as bad as it looks. Just a scratch, really.” He glances over his shoulder at the merc laying outside his door. “I’m sorry.” Byleth looks over, then shakes her head. “What was his name?”

“Jeorge. I think.” She brushes past him, turning the dead mercenary over to see his face. “Yeah, Jeorge. We called him Jeo so we didn’t confuse him with my dad. Something about similar names being easily confused.” She sighs, turning her attention back to Khalid. “Even if it is just a scratch, we should probably clean and close it so it doesn’t get infected.”

The prince looks like he’s about to protest; she agrees with Sothis’ long-suffering sigh of, _“This boy is such a handful.”_

She shakes her head at him. He is the most troublesome of jobs she’s been assigned.

“It’s really not that—” he bites off his sentence as she pulls his hand away and presses her fingers to his hip. “ _Ow_ .” She lifts her eyes, brows quizzical as Khalid sucks in a breath. “Okay, so it _might_ hurt a _little_.”

_“He may not be king of Almyra, yet, but he is certainly the king of understatement.”_

Sighing, Byleth steps back and gestures toward his desk. Rolling his eyes, but refraining from starting an argument, he sits down and leans back in his chair. Byleth grimaces at the dead assassin in the middle of his floor, eventually pulling the corpse out and dropping it in front of the door. Her father will know what to do when he returns.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “If I had been here—”

“It’s fine. I’ve gotten used to this. I was being attacked long before I met you.” Byleth frowns. It doesn’t make her feel better. Catching her gaze, Khalid flashes her a small smile and casually leans an elbow on his desk. “C’mon, I don’t look _that_ bad, do I?”

Byleth says nothing and turns toward the bathroom. He’s right, she knows that he’s been through worse before she knew him, but… this is her job. Her job is to _protect him_ , and she’d failed because she wanted a day to herself.

Stupid. _Stupid!_

She doesn’t notice she has stopped in front of the mirror with a washcloth gripped tightly in her hand until she feels Khalid’s presence at her back.

“It’s not your fault.” She flinches. He reaches out and presses a hand to hers. “Really, Byleth, I’m fine. He barely nicked me.” She frowns, not daring to look up. She doesn’t want him to see the anger, doesn’t want him to know that she is not angry with him but with herself. “Hey—”

She shakes her head with a heavy sigh. “Sit down.” She waves a hand at the shirt. “I need this out of the way.” If he makes a joke about it, she misses it. Her eyes are fixed on his hip as he carefully lifts his shirt away from his hip. He’s right, again; the wound was all but superficial, barely a graze. That only incenses her further, however. “You shouldn’t have gotten hurt at all,” she mutters as she dabs at his hip.

Khalid is silent, watching her as he leans back against the countertop.

_“He already said it wasn’t your fault. Stop beating yourself up over something as trivial as a measly scratch.”_

“Your sister is… distracting.” He flinches. “She caught me before I could get to the library.” She frowns, pulling the washcloth back to check the scratch. “She told me about how this is a snake pit.” Sothis makes an offhand comment about how she’d also mentioned Khalid was the prettiest of them. “I understand how your country’s politics work.” She can feel his frown on her shoulders as she sets the rag aside to search for gauze or bandages. “You’re in a fight for the throne, and only one of you will survive. She also mentioned that it wasn’t about gaining your father’s trust… that it was about survival and wit.”

He sighs as she finds bandages and returns her attention to his wound. “Esfir is… an interesting woman.”

_“There is that understatement again.”_

“And what did she say about me?” Her hands still and she looks up at him. “I’ve never been her favorite. I won’t believe you if you say she didn’t mention me at least once.”

Byleth looks away, wrapping the bandage around his waist a few times. It seems like overkill for a scratch, but she hadn’t found anything else readily available. “She said… you were the deadliest of them.” Khalid chuckles. “Something about the prettiest of vipers being the deadliest?” He laughs wholeheartedly at that, shifting out of her reach as he grabs his shirt.

“The prettiest _and_ deadliest, hm?” He snorts, adjusting his shirt as he steps out of the bathroom. “That’s the highest compliment she’s ever dared pay me.”

Byleth crosses her arms, frowning at his back.

There’s something tense about the way he holds himself, something she would have missed if she hadn’t been paying attention. He’s tired, shoulders sagging just enough for her to notice something is off about him. She would have asked, but he turns to look at her with that smile she’s not fond of.

  
“She’s right. It’s not about getting my father’s trust. It’s about staying alive, and who will eventually take the throne from the old man.”

_“If he does not change his approach, he will get himself killed.”_

But that is the end of the conversation, and Byleth is forced to pretend that nothing has happened. She thinks she might hate the Almyran royal succession on the basis of their underhanded tactics and she thinks she might hate Almyran royal _ty_ simply for their lack of self-preservation.

In her mind, Sothis laughs and agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people have written stories about Claude having brothers who want to kill him, but what about his sisters? So here is Esfir, the sister I created for him, who also wishes to kill her brother (and other siblings) and take the throne. Because why have nice sisters when you can have ambitious and scary ones?
> 
> And Byleth doesn’t like her. For good reason. She knows what’s up.
> 
> Leave a comment or kudos, bookmark and subscribe for updates! We’ll be back Friday!


	9. Step 9: avoid the situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can avoid it as long as he wants... if Hilda will let him.

Khalid would never tell Byleth that he has specifically requested her father to assign her elsewhere more often. She is not staying; once this job is over, the entire mercenary troop is leaving. He doesn’t want to grow used to her (anymore than he already has) being there when she will be gone far too soon.

  
But she has refused to leave his side since her misconceived mistake. Even when Jeralt tells her to take a break, she refuses and stays with him.

Nader and his mother say it’s natural, but he’s not sure what’s natural about it.

“She’s worried about you, Khalid. If it makes her feel better about what happened, let her worry,” his mother had said. He’d mumbled something about not needing someone else fretting over him. She’d laughed and sent him on his way, forcing him to mull over his thoughts on his own.

Nader had struck him down too easily during training, saying he was distracted. Khalid didn’t disagree. He was distracted, uneasy, and  _ tired _ .

He’s been tired since that day, feeling drained and weary. His normal wariness has yet to kick in, leaving him wide open to further attempts. It’s only because Byleth has refused to leave him alone that he is not dead yet. He’d be grateful if he wasn’t positive the reason he feels tired is because of the woman in question.

Blessedly, Jeralt has sent Byleth off today for something in the market. It is blatantly obvious to the prince that it is an attempt to keep the woman occupied, but Jeralt disguises it as a supply run and sends her with two other mercenaries. Something about needing her to pick up the slack the dead mercenary had left.

If she’d suspected something, she hadn’t said.

Now, as Khalid sits on the veranda with Hilda—who has been nursing an Almyran wine for the past few minutes—he wonders if he should explain whatever the reason is for his behavior. Problem is, he doesn’t  _ know _ why he doesn’t want Byleth around him anymore. She is the best of the mercenaries, the best bodyguard he’s had, and a decent companion. But these are, he thinks, the exact reasons he does not want her around.

Maybe?

“You look like you’ve been thinking about something for a while now,” Hilda says, tipping her head at him. “Is this about how  _ weird _ Balthus has been acting around your mom?”

Khalid grimaces, disgusted. “It  _ wasn’t _ . But now that you mention it… that’s pretty weird, too.”

Hilda snorts. “You’re telling  _ me _ . And he’s supposed to be  _ my _ bodyguard.” She rolls her eyes, setting her wine aside as she rests her chin on her knuckles. “So… what  _ are _ you thinking about?” A mischievous twinkle in her eyes and a smile finds its way over her face. “Or, should I say,  _ who _ ?” Khalid rolls his eyes. “Is it our favorite stoic mercenary you’re worried about?”

“I’m not worried about anything.”

Hilda scoffs, leaning back in her chair and kicking her legs up. “Yeah, sure thing, Mister Prince Man.” He glances sideways at her. She’s become far more open and cheeky with him lately. If he were anyone else, he might have ordered someone to kill her by now. She’s lucky she’s a diplomat from Fódlan, otherwise she’d be a prime target for any of his siblings. “So tell me all about your troubles and let me see if I can help.”

Khalid frowns, unsure if he knows what he even has to talk about. What does he  _ want _ to talk about?

He does  _ not _ want to talk about Byleth or his decision to push her away.

“Or maybe  _ I’ll _ talk and  _ you _ listen.” He sighs, looking to see her sitting up and turning toward him. “So how’s this for a guess as to what’s got you so glum? I bet it’s because you’ve started getting a little  _ too _ close to our favorite mercenary and you just don’t know what to do with all of those feelings. Am I at least a  _ little _ close?” Khalid doesn’t say anything, turning to stare over the gardens. “And, maybe, you’re afraid that you won’t see her once she’s gone?”

He frowns. “I don’t think—”

“ _ Or _ is it because you feel something for her and aren’t  _ sure _ about what it is you’re feeling?” Hilda is looking at him deviously, grinning even as he scowls into the distance. He refuses to give her the satisfaction of…  _ anything _ . “I think I’m a little close.” He sits up and rises, making his way down the veranda and into the gardens. “Oh, don’t go! I’m just teasing!”

He hears Hilda running after him, chasing him into the gardens.

It’s not that she’s wrong, it’s more that he’s not sure if he wants to admit it. It’s been a little past a week, Byleth an ever-present shadow at his back or side, and while he doesn’t trust her or her father or the rest of their mercenary group he has grown  _ used _ to her. And without her… he knows there will be a void once she’s gone. He doesn’t trust her, but he knows it will not be the same without her.

Hilda catches up, huffing slightly, but manages to nudge him and ask, “You ever think it might be time for you to let someone in?”

He has known Hilda for less time than Byleth, but she has caught on to his act just as quickly as the other woman had. He frowns. When did he become so readable? He didn’t think it was possible, he’s not meant to be an open book. He’s spent years hiding everything, sealing himself off, and suddenly, in the span of a week, he has found himself at a loss for words with two people who are practically strangers. It’s unsettling, knowing that his mask has slipped enough for people to see him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says easily. It’s his automatic response, the only thing he can say to keep himself from looking like a fool. “You might need to explain a bit.”

Hilda huffs, hands on her hips as she scowls up at him. “Oh,  _ puh-lease _ , you know exactly what I mean.” She snorts. “I may be an  _ awful _ diplomat, but I pride myself on being an  _ excellent _ people reader!” Khalid doesn’t say anything, but he does look sideways at her. “Hey, I’m a  _ very _ good people person.” Hilda crosses her arms defiantly, puffing out her cheeks. “I’ll have you know that I’m known as the Very  _ Best _ People Person in all of Fódlan.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

But he’s not sure if she’s given herself that title or if someone else has told her as much. She could have made it up, just as Balthus made up his  _ King of Grappling _ title he likes to flaunt.

Khalid turns away from her, weaving through the flowering bushes in the garden. Before she can continue, he interrupts and changes the conversation by asking, “How are you going to challenge my father to show your resolve?” Hilda groans. “You don’t have much time left in your diplomatic  _ vacation _ . You should figure out when you’re going to issue the challenge.”

“I  _ really _ don’t want to think about that. That’s a little too much diplomacy for my liking, and we were talking about  _ you _ and  _ your _ little issues.”

Yes, and he’d changed the subject because he hadn’t wanted to talk about his own issues.

“You don’t trust people, do you?” He stops walking and sighs. “I mean, if my brother tried to kill me, I guess I wouldn’t really trust him either. But you have to at least  _ try _ and let someone in.” She shrugs as she waltzes past him. “It doesn’t have to be me, but you should talk to someone.” She spins on her toes, grinning mischievously at him once again. He doesn’t hide his grimace, instead making a show of rolling his eyes. “Or you could totally talk to me, since I’m not really doing  _ anything _ .”

“You have a king to challenge. That’s something.” Hilda waves her hands at the idea. “You also have a bodyguard to rein in.” She stops twirling and lifts an eyebrow at him. “He’s really got to stop staring at my mom, it’s really weird.”

Hilda groans. “You’re telling me!”

Khalid watches as she turns away again and bounces through the gardens, saying something about how annoying it is that Balthus has done nothing but ogle at Lady Tiana since they arrived. “She’s not only your  _ mom _ and  _ married _ but she’s so much  _ older  _ than he is!” He didn’t need the reminder and tries to push the very thought out of his mind.

He’s reluctant to admit that she’s right.

He doesn’t trust easily and he doesn’t let anyone in. It’s easier to stay alive if he doesn’t trust anyone, because one way or another they either end up an enemy or they end up dead. And he does not want to let someone in only to watch them leave again. He doesn’t want to trust again just to realize that it is a mistake.

It is not in his nature to break down his walls and let someone see him for who he is. No matter how much he may want to, it goes against every instinct he has instilled in himself. Twenty-four years of near-death experiences and broken trust cannot be made up in one week, whether or not he  _ wants _ to let someone in.

He can’t think of anything worse than letting her in only to see her leave like everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back with our favorite boy, but there’s no Byleth. This time, we get Hilda! Because I really love Hilda and I want to get in her friendship with Khalid because they’re fantastic. And because Hilda thrives on drama and court intrigue, of _course_ she’s gonna be on Khalid’s case.
> 
> We love them, they’re great besties, I adore their relationship. They’re just so good. There will be more eventually. Including some Byleth and Hilda friendship because they’re also good. I love all of them.
> 
> Leave a comment, kudos, and don’t forget to bookmark and subscribe!


	10. Step 10: bring up ultimatums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeralt is just a hardened mercenary, but he's _pretty_ sure there's something between those two.

Jeralt does not have to be more than 120—or is it 140 by now?—to see the way Byleth has taken it upon herself to stick unnaturally close to Prince Khalid. He may be an old stick-in-the-mud, but he’s not blind. And, at some point long before Byleth was a thought in his mind, he’d been in love.

Not that Byleth is, but she is overly protective of the royal brat. She gets a look in her eyes when he says she’ll be going on a supply run or doing weapons maintenance instead of looking after the kid.

(Maybe she is and hasn’t realized it yet? Honestly, he doesn’t want to think about that.)

Jeralt is just following orders from the brat and his father, but the kid forced him to swear not to tell Byleth… which just makes it frustrating for the old mercenary. He may as  _ well _ be caught between a lover’s quarrel. If he has to come up with one more ridiculous side quest for Byleth to handle, he might sock the prince in the jaw. And he won’t apologize for it. His daughter is stressed and he’s frustrated and the prince is acting like a fool.

Why are royals so  _ stupid _ ?

Sighing as he rubs the back of his neck, he turns at the familiar sound of his daughter’s footsteps. “Back already?” She glares him down. He expected as much, though the hostility is more intense than he’d thought. “Well, might as well say it.”

She doesn’t shove the bag of vegetables into his arms, but she does hold it stiffly out to him. “Where is he?” He’s not sure he should tell her. She might kill him if she sees him now. “And don’t say you don’t know.”

So much for that idea.

Jeralt nods slowly, working his jaw as he turns and heads toward the training grounds. It had been a place of respite for him over the past week, even had a few bouts against Nader the Undefeated. Won most of the rounds, but even he made mistakes. Had the pleasure of hearing all about how Byleth had impressed the Almyran general and taken him down in less than a minute. He’s sure it’s an exaggeration, but the general was sincere in his compliments. Jeralt didn’t need to hear about his daughter’s impressive battle prowess, but he wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t damn proud of her for impressing the Almyran.

They weren’t the easiest people to impress.

He steps into the training ground as Khalid and Nader finish what seems to be their second round. Seeing his approach, Nader smiles and waves a hand to him; his eyes light up further when he sees Byleth storming in after him.

“Ah, I was wondering when you would be returning!” the large man laughs. Khalid stiffens. “Here to beat me again?”

Byleth nods curtly to Nader, not speaking as she snatches a practice sword and faces Khalid. Jeralt steps a little further back, arms crossed over his chest. Nader seems to pick up on the tension and moves to stand beside the mercenary.

“Five gold pieces she takes him down,” the Almyran whispers.

Jeralt snorts. He wouldn’t take that bet, he knew she’d bring the fool down. “We both know he doesn’t stand a chance.” Nader chuckles and nods.

Khalid stands frozen in place as Byleth raises the wooden sword at him. “Raise your sword,” she says. Jeralt has never seen or heard any kind of emotion in his daughter, but he thinks there might be a hint of rage boiling in her voice. Khalid grimaces, understanding the challenge and the underlying threat in her posture. Jeralt, fascinated, watches as the prince takes a breath and takes a defensive stance. Smart choice. He has seen her fight, he knows he cannot go on the offensive from the start.

But it won’t matter.  _ Can’t go on the defensive either. _ It’s a good effort. His smart choice for any other day will not save him today.

Byleth lunges, striking out like a snake. Jeralt would have missed it had he not been watching, had he not known how fast his daughter was when she was serious. If they were using real swords, the prince would have been dead. He has less than a second to block the assault, and even when he does the wood of his sword splinters and cracks. His eyes widen, but he is not given the chance to block her next attack. She grabs him by the sleeve, gripping him too tightly for him to retreat, and drives him to the ground.

Nader covers his mouth to hide his laughter. Jeralt shakes his head. Kid should have known better.

“I yield,” Khalid manages to say, but Byleth tightens her grip on his sleeve and glares. “Um… I’m sorry?” Byleth sets her jaw; it is the angriest Jeralt has ever seen her. He didn’t even know she was capable of anger. That rage he’d thought he’d misheard had been there after all. He should have seen it coming, considering he’s seen her smile and almost laugh. But this is new, and the anger is terrifying. She’s practically growling like a feral beast when Khalid clears his throat and whispers something Jeralt doesn’t quite catch.

Whatever he says eases her and she slowly lets go of his sleeve. “Don’t do it again.” She gets up, leaving him laying in the dirt, and makes her way out of the training grounds.

Nader, still holding back his laughter, shakes his head and moves to help his prince off of the ground. Jeralt nods to him before turning and heading after his daughter. Is it really his daughter, though? She’s never acted so rashly before, and he’s never seen her throw herself at someone so recklessly. He wonders if it’s almost time they think about heading off. Being here has changed her. He’s not sure if it’s for the better, he just knows she’s different.

She hasn’t gone far, has probably waited for him to catch up. She taps one of her feet impatiently, glaring at the columns across from her.

He’d ask what’s going on, but she doesn’t look like she wants to talk about it. She looks like she’ll attack him if he dares ask her anything. Instead, he walks past her and says, “The king only gave us a couple weeks for this job. I’m thinking we should start packing up in a few days.” Byleth says nothing, so he looks down to see her brow is furrowed and she looks like she’s trying to think about something. “Job’ll be over soon. Got a few jobs lined up in Morfis, could head that way by ship. Almyra’s got a pretty good navy, we could hop aboard and be there within a few days.” Her brow only creases further. “Well, you’ve got a few more days to decide. But I need an answer by Saturday, at the latest.”

Byleth, at last, looks up at him and shakes her head. “Decide what?” It’s an honest question.

She has no idea that he’s asking her to choose between Almyra or remaining a mercenary. He knows it must have crossed her mind at least once, but faced with the choice now she is left confused and unaware. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he is asking her to choose a possibility that the royal brat might live and become king—and who knows what she would do at that point?—or to remain with him and the rest of their hardened sellsword crew, doing odd jobs all over the place not only because they can but also because they have to eat.

“Ah, maybe I’m overthinking this,” he grumbles. “You’ve got a tough choice ahead of you, kid. Though… maybe you don’t even know it yet.”

Byleth is still frowning at him, but he only shakes his head and continues down the hallway to the room he and a few of the others are sharing. She doesn’t ask him what he’s talking about again, possibly mulling it over as they walk. Not that he’s expecting her to figure it out by the time he passes off the bag of vegetables to one of the mercs, but he isn’t about to interrupt her thoughts either.

It is not until they are making their way toward the kitchen where the servants eat that she stops and stares at his back as though he is some kind of stranger.

“Oh.” He stops and looks back at her. “You meant choosing between the two of you…”

Jeralt’s eyebrows rise in his surprise. He hadn’t expected her to catch on that quickly. It’s not  _ exactly _ how he would have put it, but it’s close enough that he doesn’t bother correcting her. The very obvious anguish at the thought of her father leaving is plain to see and he briefly wonders if he broke her. Happiness, sorrow, even  _ anger _ are not things he would have expected to see in his daughter. She did not earn her moniker because she smiled when she fought.

“I—”

“You don’t have to think about it tonight. You’ve got a couple days left. Just remember to think about it while you’re keeping that brat out of trouble.”

Byleth’s nod is small, nearly imperceptible, but it is enough.

For now, she can push the choice aside and think about getting something to eat. The growl of her stomach is starting to get louder by the second, and he almost laughs as she drops her head in embarrassment.

“C’mon, kid, let’s see what they’ve got for us tonight.” She follows in silence, head lowered; he wonders if he’ll have time to talk to her in the next few days.

Maybe he’ll talk to her another time. She hasn’t asked about her mother since she was a small child, but he thinks it’s time to tell her. Maybe he’ll bring it up after dinner. It might give her something else to think about when she’s deciding if she should leave or stay.

“Father,” she starts, “I’ve changed. You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”

Jeralt sighs. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. You wanna talk about it?” Byleth shakes her head. “Kid, you’re lucky. Not everyone has the chance to notice the kind of changes you’re going through. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy to see you smiling more.” She looks up at him. “Before we came here, you never smiled, never laughed, and I think I’ve even seen you angry and sad. It’s not bad, and I’m proud you’ve noticed.”

Byleth stares down at her feet, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

“I don’t understand it.”

Jeralt chuckles. “You don’t have to, kid. And, like I said, you don’t have to give me an answer yet. For now, just take some time to think about it and let me know when you decide. For now, it’s time we get some grub and then make sure that fool of a prince hasn’t gotten himself murdered.”

She snorts, the closest she’s come to a laugh today, and nods shortly.

Maybe he won’t tell her about Sitri yet. He doesn’t want to be the reason she makes a choice she’ll regret, and he thinks telling Byleth about her mother might sway her in one direction. He’ll let her choose, unbiased by his stories and his wishes. And, should she choose to stay, then he’ll find a time to tell her when they meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we finally have that Jeralt chapter! I waited until chapter 10 because I ~~(was having too much fun)~~ had no idea how to write him before. I have no idea if I like this chapter or not, but I definitely don't regret how I didn't make him oblivious. Because Jeralt's not blind, the man's been alive for who knows how many years, he can spot ~ _feelings_ ~ a mile away. Jeralt deserved better, so we're giving him better.
> 
> Leave a comment, kudos, and don't forget to bookmark and subscribe! We will be back on Friday!


	11. Step 11: live up to the reputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With everything going on, he’d almost forgotten all about their trip to the market and his package from Mehran.

Being a prince of Almyra is not all it’s cracked up to be. To be more accurate, _royalty_ is not all it is cracked up to be. If he could choose to be anything else, he would not have gone with royalty.

  
He would not have chosen his mother’s side, either. He’s not sure he would have liked whatever was in store for him in Fódlan. She doesn’t speak highly of it, but she barely speaks of it at all so what little he does know about it he has found on his own.

Which is how it has always been.

But if he had been given the chance to choose his own destiny— _fuck_ destiny, he thinks harshly—he would _not_ have chosen royalty. He would have chosen to be some random commoner in a backwater town with nothing but a few animals and a life of his own to live. He would have chosen to be anything other than what he is, because his family is a mess and his siblings have been trying to kill him since he was born. He is the half-breed bastard of a Fódlani woman and the esteemed King Arash of Almyra. He would have chosen to be _any_ body else, would have chosen to live in someone else’s skin because this is not the kind of life he would have chosen for himself.

He does not want to be standing over the body of his half-brother with his _brother’s_ bloodied recurve knife shaking in his hands. He does not want to be staring coldly at another brother’s blank eyes, throat slit and blood oozing slowly onto the cold tiles. He does not want to be sitting across from his half-sister as she coughs and tries to clear her throat, only to vomit blood and spasm on the floor.

He does not want to be _screaming_ as his other half-sister claws at her throat, the arrow cutting off her air and choking her in a way poison never could.

_“It was an accident! I didn’t see her! I didn’t know! She wasn’t supposed to be here!”_

Of all three, she is the only one who lingers. The others he can live with. _Suffer with,_ he chastises himself. That’s right, he’d promised never to _live_ with the ghosts. He’d promised to suffer with them, to allow them the rights of haunting him even though he only feels shame for one. He refuses to feel guilty for Arman and Nadia. He refuses to acknowledge Adel’s death as anything other than a mistake. Only Daria gets to stare him down from her place in his mind.

Shahnaz huffs, breaking his thoughts. He looks up to see Byleth scratching the wyvern’s chin.

“He likes you,” he says quietly. She glances up at him, but he doesn’t meet her gaze. He can see her frown out of the corner of his eyes. “I’ve had him since he was a hatchling. I found him when I was out with Nader. He had a crippled wing at the time.” She watches him as he steps into the stables, fingers brushing over the wyvern’s left wing. “I nursed him back to health, got him the best healers, did everything I could to make sure he could fly again.” Shahnaz coos, lifting his head to nuzzle Khalid’s shoulder. “Now, he’s the largest of any wyvern I’ve ever seen and my best friend.” A smile—a _real_ smile—touches his lips as he lifts his hands and scratches the beast’s chin.

“He’s beautiful. Like starlight.”

Khalid nods. “Yes, he is.” Shahnaz makes some sort of gurgling sound, as if he is agreeing. Smiling, he looks around the wyvern’s neck and nods to her. “Would you like to ride him?”

She blinks at him. “I’ve never ridden a wyvern.”

He doesn’t think she’s lying, but she’s not _exactly_ telling him everything. “You’ve flown before, though. Right?” She looks away. So she _had_ been riding before. “It’s not so different from riding a pegasus. And I wouldn’t let you go alone. He’s a little picky about these kinds of things.”

Byleth looks from Khalid to Shahnaz, the wyvern sniffing at her hair. She smiles, gently pushing his muzzle away from her head. “Maybe… some other time?” She takes a step back, slowly exiting the stables.

Shahnaz coos sadly at her departure. Chuckling, Khalid gives him a few scratches behind his horns. “Don’t worry, she didn’t say no. She said some other time. We’ll get her in the air soon enough.” The wyvern huffs, unconvinced, but he does settle into his bed of hay without further complaint. Smiling, Khalid steps out to find Byleth staring up at the clouds. He stands next to her, looking up in the direction she is staring.

After a few moments of silence, she says, “Almyra’s sky is different.” He frowns. “Redder, I think. Fódlan’s sky is… _pale_. Stark. The prettiest time in Fódlan is sunset. The sky is prettier.”

He won’t question it, he’s never seen the Fódlani sky. But Hilda has mentioned something similar, saying that the sky in Fódlan is nothing compared to the sky in Almyra. She’d mentioned she would love to spend a few more days just staring up at the sky so she can draw it, paint it, bottle it up and sell it. He hadn’t known she was an artist before she’d said it, he hadn’t pegged her as the artistic type. Simply a free spirit who would enjoy a trip around the world.

But now that Byleth has mentioned it, he’s inclined to believe the difference is there.

“You’re pretty talkative today,” he says, looking back to the clouds passing overhead. “What changed?”

“I beat you up.”

Khalid grimaces, chewing the inside of his cheek. Right… he hadn’t wanted a reminder. “I did say I was sorry for that.” He can feel her glaring at him, but he isn’t about to look down to see her narrowed gaze. “It was… a foolish idea. It seemed like the smart thing to do. At first.”

Which he should have known was the reason it _was not_ a smart thing to do. Distancing her from him had only ended up with him on his back and her snarling like a rabid beast at him. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been ready to murder him. His apology didn’t seem good enough, now that he’s thinking back on it. It was barely an apology, more of a plea for her to not kill him. She wouldn’t have killed him, he knows that, but he’d still begged. It was stupid and he’d promised not to do it again. He’d felt like a fool afterward.

Byleth, however, had not forgiven him for it.

He’s not sure he wants her to. She deserves to be angry.

“If you had the choice to be anything,” she starts, “what would you want to be?”

He thinks the question is ironic. He should ask if she’s a mind reader as well as a swordmaster. _Anything but royalty._ “A farmer. Maybe?” He knows nothing about farming, but if he had been born as a farmer he’s sure he would have been a decent farmer. “Maybe I’d be a recluse up in the mountains, surrounded by nature and animals? I’m perfect for being a hermit, y’know.” She tosses him a look that says she doesn’t believe him. “Or a traveler, just making my way around the world collecting stories and art and history.” He shrugs. “There are too many things I’d _want_ to be if I could be anything else.” _And not enough things I_ can _be._

She hums thoughtfully.

When she doesn’t say what she would be, he looks down and asks, “What about you?”

“I’d want to be… something else.” He frowns at her answer. “But I only know how to be a mercenary. So maybe I’d be a pirate. It’s close enough to what I do now.” It’s not exactly what he expected to hear, and it only serves to confuse him. “I don’t know what I’d be.” Her brow furrows slightly and a scowl flickers over her face for a brief moment. Shaking her head, she turns her attention back to him. “Have I said something strange?”

He’s about to tell her that everything she says is strange in one way or another, but he smiles and shakes his head instead. “Not really.”

Turning, he extends an arm to her and nods towards the interior of the palace. “How about we find Hilda and ask her what she’d want to be if she could be anything else? Maybe we’ll both figure out what _we_ would want to be.” She looks down at his arm, hesitating at first, but eventually loops her arm in his and nods slowly. “I’m sure she’ll say she wants to be someone who can do nothing but lounge around all day.”

“So…” Byleth trails off, and then a small smile tugs at her lips as she says, “she’d be Aisha?”

Khalid blinks. The fact that she’d made a joke hits him and he busts out laughing before he can stop himself. “Yeah, I guess she would be!” He doesn’t want to hide how she has truly made him laugh, how her attempt at joking has shifted a dark cloud from over his head. It’s a stupid joke, truly horrible, but it’s _Byleth_ saying it and that is what makes it funny.

He is still smiling as they step past the alabaster columns lining the outside of the palace.

Up until the feeling of eyes on his back forces him to stop and turn. Byleth turns with him, hand on her sword. The cold smile on Esfir’s lips does nothing to lighten the darkness in her eyes. “My, my, so quick to the draw I see,” she coos. She tosses a Morfis plum into the air, catching it without looking. “Hello, Khalid. Evening, Byleth.” She hums, still tossing the plum in the air and catching it as she walks past them. “Was just wondering if you heard the news?”

Khalid frowns at her. He would rather not give her the satisfaction of asking what she means, but he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Normally, he wouldn’t have said anything.

“What news?”

Esfir hums, tipping her head at him. She stops, catching the plum again. The casual movement of the action is enough to set him on edge. She’s dangerous when she acts like this. He’s seen it firsthand, watching as she’d smiled at Mitra even as she slit their kind sister’s neck with one of her hairpins. She, of the three left, is the only challenge.

“Why, dear Khalid, I was _sure_ you knew. It _was_ your doing, wasn’t it?” She bats her eyelashes innocently, head tilted up at him.

His stomach drops.

“You are so _very_ clever with your poisons. What was it this time? Snakeroot?” She laughs, nodding as she tosses the plum into the air again. This time, she watches as it falls back into her hand. “What a perfect name, too. This cozy den of vipers is slowly dwindling. Soon enough, it’ll just be the two of us and Father.” She looks sideways at him, a threat in her eyes as she taps a finger to his cheek. He tenses at the feeling. “Or, maybe, it will just be me?” Esfir turns her attention away from her brother, gaze settling on Byleth. For some reason _that_ unsettles Khalid more than it had when her attention had been on him. “I told you before that the prettiest ones are always the deadliest.”

Khalid sets his jaw, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he watches his sister. She smiles at him, wiggling her fingers in goodbye.

“I’m looking forward to your next move, brother dear!”

Esfir walks away without another word, laughing to herself. He waits until she is gone before his shoulders sag and he exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Byleth, however, turns her attention to him and tips her head questioningly. He isn’t surprised by her curiosity. He only wished they were not standing in the middle of the hallway.

Nadia clawing at her throat rises to the forefront of his mind again, bile rising even as he takes a breath and forces his heart to slow. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been standing there in silence until Byleth reaches out and touches his arm.

“Khalid?”

He opens his eyes, staring up at the tall, arched ceiling of the palace halls. She’d said she understood Almyran politics before, but how much of it does she _truly_ understand?

He doesn’t understand why he is worrying about whether she understands his position…

He closes his eyes, unwilling to see her reaction. “Feroze is dead,” he whispers. When she doesn’t answer, he is sure she has left. But he did not hear her go. Maybe she is staring at him in disgust. That would be more likely. He doesn’t look, doesn’t want to see what could be there waiting for him.

  
Instead, there is a gentle hand on his shoulder and a soft question of, “Was it necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

Something like a sob breaks through his defenses and he finds himself slowly easing into the gentle hold of a woman he barely knows. He’d be lying if he said it was not the most wonderful thing he’d experienced. She’d said that Feroze’s death being necessary was all that mattered… and that is probably the kindest thing anyone could ever have said about fratricide. He’d killed his own brother and all that mattered was that it was _necessary_.

She hadn’t run away from him in disgust.

Feroze was a necessary sacrifice, he told himself. He was in the way and a threat (no matter how small of a threat he was), which made him a problem. Snakeroot in his tea had done the trick, that was all it took. And she’d agreed, hadn’t left, said that was all that mattered, _stayed_ with him. The horrible thought of his brother choking and collapsing from his chair surfaced in Khalid’s mind and had him thinking just how awful a person he was, but she couldn’t read his mind and she was still there.

He doesn’t deserve Byleth. He doesn’t think anyone deserves her. Not a single soul or even the _world_ deserves a woman like her.

And yet she is here with him, comforting him over killing his brother.

“Thank you…” he breathes, allowing her close enough to wrap her arms around his waist. She doesn’t hug often, he can feel it in the hesitance, but it doesn’t matter to him. She hasn’t left. She could be _anywhere_ else, but she chooses to be _here_.

And that is enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry I didn’t show much of Feroze, but he was a necessary casualty. I have plans for everyone else. As for him, I might write a oneshot at some point so you know what he was like (apart from being an absolute idiot), but there’s nothing in the works right now. He’ll only be missed for because I don’t get to throw in more jokes about his lack of brain cells.
> 
> As for our best boy, I think FE3H does a good job at showing how Claude doesn’t like to take life unless he needs to, but even then he still feels the guilt of surviving. I just did my second GD runthrough (because I couldn’t save Caspar, Ferdinand, or Ashe the first time I played), and the point where he reads Hubert’s letter, where he calls him a better man than he realized, is just such a great moment. Even the earlier chapters like Remire and taking on Lonato really show how he feels about conflict. He knows he has to survive as the victor and live with what he’s done, but he’s still human and he’s definitely allowed to feel things (and as a personal headcanon of mine, I think that’s one of the main reasons he’s staring at the stars in the A support with Byleth). He’s so good at hiding and bottling up those feelings, but he doesn’t _have_ to around Byleth, and I really wanted to get that in this chapter. I hope I did it without making him seem too out of character, but he is kinda different since this is Khalid, who never went to Garreg Mach and never had to hide who he really was. So, in some ways, he’s going to be a little different than his in-game self. Which could make this a hit or miss, so we’ll see aha...
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has left such wonderful comments, they really do make my day when I read them. The next chapter will be up Tuesday, so enjoy the weekend and survive Monday so you can read what happens next!


	12. Step 12: challenge the status quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda had procrastinated as long as she could. Looks like she has to settle on their idea after all.

Hilda’s issuance of the challenge comes as a shock to Khalid’s siblings. King Arash only smiles at her. “Interesting choice, Lady Goneril.” Hilda grimaces at the title. “Do you have an idea for who you wish to use as your champion?”

Balthus glances sideways at her.

“I choose Balthus von Albrecht as my champion.” King Arash nods slowly. His eyes narrow at the man, but he turns his attention back to Hilda and dips his head to her. “Will I have the pleasure of knowing who your champion will be?”

The king turns his attention to Nader. “Our greatest champion of all, Nader the Undefeated, shall fight for us.”

Hilda isn’t surprised by this choice. Nader is, as her brother has put it, a beast of a man. He’s shorter than Balthus, but his shoulders are twice the size of the younger brawler. He’s a war veteran and, like all Almyrans, as tough as they come. She has faith in Balthus’ strength, but she’s not excited to watch this match take place.

King Arash, not missing a beat, looks at Hilda with a smile she can only think of as cold. “As you will be returning to Goneril territory within the week, would you be willing to have this match within two days time?” he asks.

Two days?

She glances at Balthus. He, in response, nods shortly.

“Two days will be fine. Thank you.” She wishes there was more time. They’ve been here long enough that they’ve grown used to the arid weather, but she doesn’t know how well Balthus will fare against the large Almyran general. He looks ready to go right there at the dinner table, but Hilda cannot help this feeling of anxiety bubbling up in the pit of her stomach. “If I may, what will this match be fought with?”

The king tips his head. “As the challenger, I leave that up to you. You may choose any weapon you desire.”

The anxiety settles just enough for her shoulders to sag in relief.  _ Any _ weapon?

“I choose fists and gauntlets.” Balthus smiles a little at her decision. Yes, she’d been paying attention to his self-proclaimed title. She’s known him too long  _ not _ to. But if he dares bring it up later, she’s going to start calling him Baltie in front of Lady Tiana. “I assume I also have the privilege of choosing how long this challenge will be?” King Arash nods. “Three rounds. Should there not be a clear victor by the second round, the third will be the tiebreaker.”

“Very well, I accept.”

Hilda deflates a little when the king’s attention turns away from her. From across the table, Khalid nods slightly in her direction as if to say she did a good job. She’d rather be at home doing nothing at all. Being a diplomat takes too much out of her.

Balthus reaches under the table and gives her hand a small squeeze. “No worries, Hilda,” he whispers. “I may not be Holst, but I think I can take him.”

She almost wants to smack him over the head. “Except even  _ Holst _ has a tough time against Nader the  _ Undefeated _ ,” she mutters back.

Balthus tosses her a grin before letting go of her hand, settling back in his seat as dinner continues. Khalid’s sister, Esfir, is saying something about how the festivities of a challenge will be sorely lacking without Feroze around, but Hilda can’t remember which brother was which. Was Feroze the one who was glaring Balthus down, or was he the one staring at Byleth? Bahadur, the one remaining, has yet to look up from his plate. He has been picking absently at his plate; she briefly wonders if he was close to his brother.

She knows enough from Khalid’s stories to know that his brother’s death was not an accident. If she’s being honest, she suspects he might have been behind it.

He looks innocent, but he is just as capable of killing as the rest of siblings.

“Lady Goneril?” She looks up from her plate to see Esfir watching her carefully. She’s studying her, that’s what she’s doing. It makes her uneasy. The piercing gaze of this woman is enough to send shivers down Hilda’s spine. “What do you think?” Hilda blinks at her. Think of what? “Ah, my apologies, I must have interrupted a deep thought.” Esfir doesn’t look apologetic about it. “I was saying that Feroze’s birthday was coming up, so to honor him we should hold a celebration of his life. You would still be here. What do you think of a grand ball? A sort of farewell to him and to you and your party before you depart for Fódlan once more.”

Hilda, without meaning to, looks at Khalid. He looks mildly disturbed by the notion. His gaze doesn’t even meet hers, lost in thought as he stares at his hands.

With no help coming from the prince, Hilda shakes her head and asks, “Have you held balls in honor of the dead before?”

It must be a smart question, because Esfir’s face lights up in what can only be described as surprise and admiration. She didn’t know the woman was capable of admiring anything. “To be honest, no. But, seeing as you will still be here on the day, it might be nice to give it a try.” Her attention turns to King Arash, and the slight incline of her head is the only indication that her next question is something of a dare. “Well, Father? What do you think of throwing a party in honor of our dearly departed Feroze and our honorary guests?”

Had the king been Hilda’s father, she would have known the answer immediately. He sends a dark scowl in Esfir’s direction, and though it is brief and replaced with one of the charming smiles his youngest son has inherited, Hilda does not miss the warning in his eyes. Hilda has never been more grateful to have been born to Duke Goneril and not to the royal Almyran family.

“I don’t see why not. A celebration should be…  _ interesting _ . And, should our diplomats succeed in their mission here, it will certainly be a time for a party.” He raises his glass, followed suit by his children and wife. “To hopeful beginnings.”

Hilda, forcing a smile on her face, raises her glass alongside Balthus. “To new friendships,” she says. The king dips his head. Hilda doesn’t think he likes the idea of throwing a party, but he wasn’t going to get into that argument at the dinner table. He is not the only one; Lady Tiana and Khalid look at each other for a brief moment before turning their attention to their plates again. Hilda doesn’t like the uneasy feeling she is starting to notice around the table.

Quickly, as if to end the awkwardness of dinner, Khalid pushes his chair back and gives his father a stiff bow. Without missing a beat, Byleth is at his side and they are heading out of the dining hall before Esfir can question her younger brother. King Arash, blessedly, snaps his fingers to a pair of servants off to the side and suddenly the room is filled with bustling maids and butlers grabbing plates and glasses and hurrying to the kitchen. He pushes his seat back, Lady Tiana following suit, and they leave with a quick nod in Hilda’s direction. Having remained silent through the majority—if not all—of dinner, Hilda barely notices when Nader leaves with them. She nods back to be polite, but she doesn’t think they are looking in her direction.

Bahadur leaves soon after, and though Esfir lingers long enough to study Hilda for a few more minutes, she departs once the rest of her family has left her earshot.

Hilda sinks into her chair, Balthus heaving a sigh as he slumps back in his own.

“Why do I feel like every talk with an Almyran is going to end up in a fight?” An awful thought, but she can’t help it by now. They’re all crazy and could kill her in her sleep. She groans and drops her head into her hands. “Goddess, I’m gonna kill my brother for this.  _ He _ should have done this himself!”

Balthus snorts. “Can you imagine Holst trying to keep his cool with his archenemy sitting across from him during dinner?” Hilda shakes her head. “He would’ve issued a challenge from day one, and it wouldn’t have been for diplomatic reasons.” That only makes Hilda groan louder. She hates that he’s right. Holst would have picked a fight if Nader hadn’t. “Maybe he would’ve been civil enough if he’d gotten a few drinks in him first. Who knows?”

She sits back to look at Balthus, and she wonders how he can sit there with such an easygoing grin on his face.  _ He _ has to face that man. In  _ two days _ . She wouldn’t be so relaxed if she were in his position.

“But he’d at least know what to do,” she mutters. “I’m no good at this kind of stuff! Give me dresses and makeup any day, I’ll make any lady shine! But  _ diplomacy _ ?”

Balthus rises from his chair, waiting until Hilda gets up from hers before dropping one of his hands to her head. “You’re doing fine, Hilda. Holst would be proud.” She grimaces. “I’m the one who should be worried! I have to make sure I win this, or he’ll kill me for letting you down.”

She hums. “That’s true, he’d definitely kill you.” At least maim.

Balthus chuckles and shakes his head, hands on his hips. “Guess I should start hitting the training grounds, then. Can’t disappoint you two.” Hilda cocks an eyebrow at the grappler, but he is staring at the ceiling. “Well, I’ve got two days… could do some gambling first…”

She smacks his arm. “Don’t you dare.”

He yelps, laughing nervously as he rubs at his arm. “Kidding! I was kidding!” She frowns. “Training, right, I get it. No distractions.” She thinks she catches the hint of a blush, but he looks away before she can confirm her suspicions. “What I wouldn’t give to be back in the Abyss right now…”

Hilda almost hits him again, but he’s scampering off before she can throw a single punch.

With him gone, Hilda starts to wonder if she should search for Khalid and Byleth. Maybe she’ll get some insight into why the table was so tense (and remember which brother Feroze had been). If she can’t remember him, he must not have been important. He was important enough that she remembers, very vaguely, that he’d been sitting near Khalid the first time they’d met.

She isn’t sure she wants to see the prince and his bodyguard, however. He’d most certainly been the one to kill his brother, but she doesn’t care about that. That’s simply politics, and even she can understand that.

But she is concerned meeting with him now might look like she is trying to gain the upperhand and cheat in some way. She doesn’t know how Almyrans feel about “consorting with the enemy” before a big match.

Halfway back to her room, she receives her answer.

Leaning on her door, arms crossed, is Khalid. Byleth is nearby but still a far enough distance away that she still looks like his ever-present, looming shadow. Hilda, knowing who they are, only crosses her arms and lifts an eyebrow at them. “Well that’s not ominous at all,” she says with a halfhearted snort. “At least I won’t be coming to you. What’s up?”

Khalid shifts off her door, pushing it open for her.

“Oh yeah, and what was  _ up _ with dinner tonight? Kinda weird, if you ask me!” She doesn’t need to be looking at the prince to know he is glaring at her back. “Your sister is so creepy, by the way. I do  _ not _ like her.”

“Not many do.”

He closes the door and takes a seat on one of the chaises on the far side of the room. Byleth stands nearby, though he looks at her as though she’s crazy. She doesn’t sit, making both him and Hilda shake their heads. She doesn’t notice.

“Glad you finally got the challenge out there, but it’s not going to be easy.” Hilda huffs. Nothing ever is anymore. “As for the celebration… I suspect that is only Esfir wishing to cover something up. She’d never had suggested it if she couldn’t get something out of it.” She hums. So that had been why he, his mother, and his father had looked uncomfortable about the idea. They knew Esfir would gain something from it. That makes her uneasy, too…

“What could she want?”

Khalid, however, shakes his head. “She’s clever, whatever she has up her sleeve will start during the celebration. I doubt she’d act then, but she may very well start putting whatever scheme she has into place during that party.” None of this is making Hilda feel any better. “Everyone will be focused on having fun, security will be focused on the ballroom and wherever else my parents decide to put them. Which means other places will be open.”

“A diversion… Sure is sneaky. I guess that makes sense.” Hilda frowns and shakes her head. “But what could she have planned?”

Khalid doesn’t know. She can see it in the way that he looks away and scowls at the wall. He doesn’t know and he can’t do anything about it if he doesn’t know. “For now,” he says as he rises from the chaise, “we should focus on the match. Balthus, especially. If he wants to have any chance of beating Nader, he needs to put in a lot more effort. And he only has two days.”

Hilda knows he doesn’t think Balthus can win. At least not the entire match.

That would be, not only a miracle, but a blessing from the goddess herself.

“I’ll let him know.” Khalid nods, heading for the door with Byleth at his side. “Hey,” he turns back to look at her, “and thanks for the tip about your sister.” Hilda grins and winks. “She’s a creepy one, alright, but you’re pretty clever and dangerous yourself. Make sure she doesn’t outsmart you, ‘kay?”

He smiles, but it barely lifts the corners of his mouth and it doesn’t meet his eyes. She hasn’t seen one of the forced, fake smiles in a while.

“Just stay out of trouble, Hilda. You’ll survive longer than any family of the Almyran royal line if you keep your head down and stay out of trouble.” He turns again and leaves, allowing Hilda the chance to think about his words and advice.

She’s gotten herself knee-deep in this family’s drama, hasn’t she?

The Fódlani diplomat grins wildly and giggles. Oh, she is  _ so _ here for court drama and intrigue. She can’t wait to tell Balthus all about it when he returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Hilda has finally issued the challenge! Almyrans are, as Claude and Cyril mention in FE3H, a very battle-oriented people. She didn’t really have a choice in the matter, it was do or die (aka, go back as a failure, and that is not ideal). And what is Esfir thinking? Hm hm hmmm... guess you’ll just have to wait and see! She’s a sneaky one, keep your eye on that one.
> 
> Did I make this a plot point because I couldn’t think of anything else? Yes. But does it actually make sense? Sorta. It made sense when I was writing it. Can’t take it back now.
> 
> Comment, kudos, feedback, bookmark! Let me know what you think, and we’ll be back on Friday!


	13. Step 13: have a conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a rare occasion to have someone around who can have an open and honest conversation with him. But it’s also strange.

Khalid would not describe Byleth as loose-lipped, but her current quietness far outmatches her previous moments of silence. She has been distant and less talkative since she’d, as she delicately put it, _beat him up_. Though they’d made amends and she’d remained when Esfir had brought them news of Feroze’s death, she’d taken to keeping to herself more often.

When asked, however, she assures him it is of no fault of his own. He’s not inclined to believe her, considering her behavior.

And, while he’d rather be walking the halls with Hilda and listening to her go on about nothing important, he is stuck with the Blade Breaker’s stony gaze on his back and an uneasy feeling in his stomach. It’s the first time Byleth has requested her father take over for her. If he’s done something to offend her, he’d appreciate knowing what it is he has done so he can rectify the situation. She’s a woman of action, she would have fought him again if she’d needed a reason. Concealing her feelings about something is far too much like him.

He has rubbed off on her in all the wrong ways.

“You’re not your usual talkative self today, brat.” He frowns back at Jeralt. The man has been walking a few paces behind him, arms crossed the entire time. “I’ve been around too long to miss when someone’s acting differently.” Khalid looks away. “What’s on your mind, kid?” He huffs instead. “C’mon, gotta talk to someone.”

He’d rather not. Talking tends to get him in trouble.

Jeralt, however, is still watching him. Realizing he won’t be able to shake off the man’s curiosity, the prince settles for a question he thinks might be safe. “When will you and your group be leaving?” He doesn’t realize _this_ is the source of all his trouble until after he’s asked it. “Will you be here for the celebration?”

The old mercenary chuckles. “I suppose we will be. It’s tomorrow, so we’ll at least be around until then. But we should be on our way soon after.” Khalid nods slowly. “Anything _else_ you’re worried about?”

The prince hides his grimace, shaking his head instead.

That’s enough of an answer for him. He’s not sure he’d like to know the answer to the other question he wants to ask. He’d rather hear it from Byleth herself. And… asking her father if he’s done something to offend her might end with a sword in his back. No, Jeralt is an honorable enough man to not stab him in the back. Khalid would probably end up with a sword through his belly instead.

“Hey, brat,” Khalid tips his head at Jeralt, “what’s got you so worried, huh? Never seen you mince words.”

The prince chews the inside of his lip, unsure how to explain it. He’s never had problems with words before; he has a silver tongue that could charm the scales off a wyvern. But when he thinks of them leaving so soon… he loses faith in his normally quick wit and above average intellect. Why should he care when they leave? He doesn’t trust them anyway.

Or maybe he’s grown to trust _one_ of them.

He doesn’t like the idea of letting someone in. Despite Hilda’s words, despite her fervent belief that he had reason to let in the unemotional mercenary, he does not _want_ to let someone in. He let someone in once, and he doesn’t want to feel that kind of pain again. He’d been so foolish back then.

“You still with me, brat?”

“Unfortunately.” Khalid sighs, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I don’t know what you want me to say, though.” Jeralt scoffs behind him. “I have nothing to talk about.”

“You’re a decent liar, kid, but you haven’t been around nearly as long as I have.”

The honesty in his words makes Khalid uneasy. He doesn’t like how easily Jeralt can see through him. Years of crafting the perfect persona, of learning how to wield fake smiles as efficiently as any dagger or sword or bow, and yet this man can read him after a few days. He remembers when Byleth had told him to stop winking because he didn’t mean it; the perception the father and daughter wield is uncanny and he doesn’t like the vulnerability that comes with it. Being vulnerable is never a good thing, as far as he is concerned.

Jeralt’s voice breaks Khalid’s concentration, stopping him mid-step. “She has until tomorrow to let me know what she decides.” The prince’s brow furrows as he looks back. “Or do you think you’d be better off without a bodyguard?”

That isn’t what the older man is asking.

Understanding dawns on him, a low, breathless chuckle escaping him as he nods. “So that’s it…” Her silence, the distance, he thinks he almost knows why she’s been dead set on avoiding him as much as possible now. He briefly wonders if he can throw himself into a mock duel with her as she had with him.

He’d lose, no doubt, but maybe it would get _his_ point across as it had for her.

“What’s ‘it’?” Jeralt asks. When Khalid doesn’t answer, the old merc simply chuckles and nods. He never says what he’s laughing at, opting for a change of topic instead. (Of which the prince is grateful, but refrains from vocalizing. That’s enough honesty for one day.) “How are you feeling about this challenge? That Goneril girl might not like her position, but she’s got spirit.” Khalid hums. “Think her champion has a chance against the Undefeated?”

If he’s being honest—a rare occasion at any time—he would have answered that he didn’t know. He’s never seen the “King of Grappling” fight before, but he has trained with Nader the Undefeated since he was old enough to lift a sword. He’s undeniably biased towards Nader, but he is sympathetic towards Hilda, making objectivity difficult for him.

He settles on saying, “I’m not the best person to ask.”

Jeralt makes a sound like a low grunt. He almost sounds like he wants to say something, but stops himself short. The silence that follows makes Khalid’s shoulders tense. He wishes Byleth were with him, this would be far more entertaining. But he is stuck with Jeralt, the Blade Breaker, and he can’t think straight with the gruff looking mercenary looking like he could break him in half without needing a reason. Having the easy silence of Byleth around feels like a luxury he should never have taken for granted.

“Hey, brat,” he glances over his shoulder at Jeralt, “we walking around in circles for any particular reason? Or are you just bored?”

Khalid stops again. He hadn’t noticed he had been pacing the halls in circles, looping from the training grounds around the kitchen and library and back around to the training grounds again. He’d been sure he had a destination in mind at some point, but with the following conversation… he shakes his head. He’d gotten sidetracked. Getting sidetracked meant he was getting lazy, which led to complacency and eventually death. Having a constant presence at his back made him far too at ease.

That was how he’d ended up with a thin scar on his hip.

He scowls and moves towards an empty archway, leaning heavily against the column. Jeralt stands a few paces away, staring down at him. The impassive glare in his eyes is not nearly as comforting as his daughter’s.

Needing something to talk about to fill the void, the prince looks up at the hardened mercenary. “Why did my father hire you?” Jeralt lifts an eyebrow at him. “He could have hired any number of Almyran mercenaries, and yet he chose you and your group. Why? What’s in it for him and what’s in it for you?”

He wasn’t aiming to impress the older man, but a small smile creeps up Jeralt’s lips as he moves to lean against the opposite column. “You’re a quick thinker. Haven’t you figured it out yet?”

Something in the pit of Khalid’s stomach says that he has, but he wants to hear it. He wants verbal confirmation that his father had hired Jeralt and his mercenaries not only because of their skill, but also because they were a line of defense for the king. Jeralt had already told him that they had been hired to keep him out of trouble. That included, but was not limited to, protecting the prince from assassination attempts. His own father had once said that keeping anyone in their family out of trouble was like trying to tame a feral wyvern; dangerous at best, deadly at worst, and always a dirty job.

“I have some idea,” he replies quietly, drumming his fingers on his arms. “My father is, as I am, a schemer at his core. And this is not a fight between siblings alone, but between family. That includes the king.” He stands up a little straighter and runs a hand through his wild brown hair. He has his father to thank for that, as well. “So I have _some_ idea of what he hired you for… but I need to know in order to confirm my suspicions.”

“You should ask him about it, then. I don’t think I’m the person you should be talking to.” Jeralt shrugs and moves away from the column. “Besides, I’m under contract. Might not like being sworn to secrecy, but it comes with the job. And I’m a man of my word… even if it seems you Almyrans are not.”

He’d be offended if he didn’t agree with the statement.

The sound of familiar footsteps takes the prince’s attention away from Jeralt and his unanswered question, his eyes led straight to the two women walking toward the training grounds. “I’m _really_ not up for training with weapons, y’know!” Hilda whines. “Can’t we go into town and get our nails done, or shop for cute outfits?” The look Byleth sends her way is enough for the pink-haired woman to groan so loud it echoes off the ceiling. “Why do I even bother? I should have asked Baltie to hang out with me today.”

Byleth frowns. Khalid smiles at the way her nose wrinkles just slightly; he’d started seeing it a few days ago. He has yet to tell her about the facial tick.

“I thought you said he was training for tomorrow? Somewhere off by an oasis, right?”

“ _Ugh_ , don’t _remind_ me! More like he’s taking a beach day!”

Hilda complains the rest of the way, the two turning just before they reach the columns Khalid and Jeralt are resting against. His eyes follow the blue-haired mercenary, noting every stiff motion of her shoulders and the way her stride shortens to match Hilda’s own. She doesn’t move to push her hair out of her face even as a light breeze blows it into her eyes, simply turns her head slightly so it is blown back behind her ears. She doesn’t notice him, or if she does she says nothing and continues listening to Hilda’s moaning and groaning.

He doesn’t notice Jeralt is watching him until the two are gone and he looks back at the older man. One eyebrow cocked and a stern look on his face—which isn’t much different from his usual scowl—force Khalid to throw on an easy grin.

“Do you happen to enjoy reading, Jeralt?”

The mercenary rolls his eyes. “You’re as hopeless as Byleth.” Sighing, Jeralt walks past him and heads in the direction of the library. If Khalid had any sense, he would have read into that comment and would have asked for an explanation. Instead, he moves to walk at the Blade Breaker’s side in an awkward silence once more.

He’ll take awkward silences over emotional decisions any day.

Besides, he doesn’t usually get the opportunity to question the stalwart _Blade Breaker_ , and a trip to the library seems like the perfect place to do just that. He’d love to hear more about the place this hardened mercenary has come from, even if Jeralt is as secretive as they come. There’s so much Khalid could ask, and he thinks he has enough questions to last them the entire day.

Or at least until he is forced to leave his sanctuary and eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How slow of a slow burn am I going for? The answer must be extremely slow since this is chapter 13 and they haven’t even held hands. And now Jeralt is having a talk with Khalid, which is mostly my way of being self-indulgent... again.
> 
> How many times have I played FE3H and wished that Jeralt had a conversation with Claude? Well, since I have only played the GD route twice, BL route once, and refuse to play the BE and church routes because I don’t want to hurt my boys, then the answer is twice. The closest I get is Claude asking to read Jeralt’s journal. How dare they not give us a conversation between the two. I sigh... oh, the lost opportunities. 😔
> 
> Anyway, drop a comment, kudos, and bookmark/subscribe! We’ll be back on Tuesday!


	14. Step 14: watch a fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s never watched more than a street brawl. A fight in an arena is definitely a new experience for her.

It’s not an oasis Balthus had been training at, but Byleth doesn’t get the rest of the details. He is back within the day, ready for a brawl with the so-called Undefeated Almyran general.

_ “You defeated him. Quite easily, too.” _

He hadn’t been going all out, she surmises. Though Sothis is right, she  _ had _ defeated him. And she had not been going all out either. It makes her wonder if things would have ended up the same had they been trying to kill each other. There was no reason to attempt such a thing, at least not on her part, and so she had never entertained the idea. But now she is curious—

The familiar presence of Prince Khalid at her side brings her eyes up to his face. She hadn’t noticed how tired he’d looked before, but with him so close she can see the dark bags under his eyes.

Has he been getting enough sleep?

_ “Worried about our favorite prince? How sweet!” _

Khalid looks down just as Byleth is starting to scowl at Sothis’ comment. “Do I have something on my face?” She blinks up at him. “You’re… glaring at me.” Scolding herself, Byleth shakes her head and turns her attention toward the arena.

“No, I was… thinking.”

He hums. She knows he can see through the half-truth—perhaps because he is so well-versed in telling them—but he doesn’t question her on it. She guesses it’s because he’d scold himself for being a hypocrite. Instead, he looks toward the arena as Nader and Balthus step out and face the crowd. They both smile and wave at the people before turning their eyes to the Almyran royal family. Khalid and the rest of his family straighten and wave to the crowded Almyran stands.

It’s enough of a distraction for Byleth to glance in his direction once more.

He’s stiff, but not his usual alert self. It almost looks as though he’s slept wrong, because his left arm moves a little too mechanically. And then there’s the way he clenches and unclenches his right hand. She can’t be sure what’s wrong with him, but she can see something is off. So off, in fact, that he practically drops into his seat when the cheering dies down and his father rises to address the people. She briefly wonders if it has something to do with his brother’s death. She has not been paying enough attention; she internally scolds herself for not noticing earlier.

Her eyes turn back to the arena before he notices how she has been staring.

She hadn’t realized this would be a public spectacle until her father had told her last night. She thought it was going to be a private match in the palace training grounds. Khalid had chuckled at the thought.

“Almyrans love their sports, and brawling is definitely one of their favorites. They wouldn’t pass up this kind of a match for anything,” he’d laughed. “There’d probably be riots if my father didn’t let them see this. Besides, it will be followed up by a celebration. Whether it’s a farewell celebration or a future alliance party… well, that’s going to be determined by the end of the fight, won’t it?”

When he’d explained how the Almyrans were a very physical people, she felt foolish for thinking the match would be private. It made more sense this way.

“My fellow Almyrans, welcome!” Her eyes turn at the sound of King Arash’s thunderous voice. “Today we not only celebrate the short life of my son, the late Prince Feroze, but we also bear witness to a grand fight between the people of Fódlan and the people of Almyra!” A roar rises from the crowd, the stands filled with what almost sounds like a battle cry. “The Lady Hilda Valentine Goneril from Fódlan has issued a challenge so that we may test the resolve of her people. Should her champion, Balthus von Albrecht, win this match against our champion, Nader the Undefeated,” a new roar rises from the stands in response to the general’s name, “I have promised to consider signing a peace treaty with the new king of the unified Fódlan. As per the usual rules, the only weapons used will be those the challenger has selected! Lady Goneril has selected fists and gauntlets!”

Byleth glances down to see Balthus grinning. His eyes rise to the royal box, but for once they don’t land on Lady Tiana. They land on Hilda, and he gives her a small and almost imperceptible nod. She looks to see the young woman’s reaction, but all she sees is Hilda clutching her chair’s arms with white knuckles.

“This will be a three-round match. Should the winner not be decided by the second match, the third shall be used as a tiebreaker. And,” both Hilda and Byleth turn to look up at the king, “should the tiebreaker not settle this match,  _ I _ and the rest of my family shall decide the victor!” Hilda’s eyes widen, her gaze snapping back to Balthus. Byleth looks too, but the man only nods and throws the young Goneril diplomat a wink.

Byleth would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking.

“That’s new.” She frowns at Khalid. “My father is a mysterious man, even in our family. He has his reasons for everything, but usually he wouldn’t bother making such an announcement.” He shakes his head, eyes on the two men turning to face each other in the ring. “It’s normally clear who will win any match, so it’s not a necessity. Which means he’s not sure who will win this one. Or… he’s doing it for show.” He leans to his left, cheek on his knuckle. “Never known my father to be unsure of anything, so it could very well be the latter.” He snorts and shrugs. “Though… I could be wrong, and he may have other reasons. What do I know?”

She would have asked him if that was a good thing, but there is a loud ringing throughout the arena and Balthus and Nader’s match draws her attention away.

Balthus makes the first move, a quick jab to Nader’s right shoulder. The Almyran general turns and takes it, shoving Balthus back a few steps as he presses his weight into him. She’d known the weight difference would play a part; Nader had obviously thought of the same thing. Balthus is taller, but Nader is bigger. He’s not going to be an easy one to drop unless taken by surprise.

“Who do you think will win?” she asks, leaning toward Khalid.

He shakes his head, absently tugging at his braid. “I’m not sure, honestly. They’re both decent fighters, but I’ve only seen Nader fight. I’ve trained with him.” He shrugs. “I don’t know anything about how Balthus fights.”

She doesn’t notice how he is looking at her until she turns to ask another question. “What?”

“Your father asked me the same thing yesterday.”

She lifts an eyebrow, but a sudden flinch and inhale from Hilda’s seat draws her attention to the match. Balthus is staggering backwards, turning to avoid taking a shot to his right side; she doesn’t see why until he dances back a few steps. His right eye is closed, but not because it has been struck, because there is a small cut over his eyebrow and it is bleeding down his face and sticking to his eyelashes.

“Nice shot,” she thinks she hears him laugh. She doesn’t catch whatever else he says, watching as he swipes the back of his hand over his eyebrow.

Eyebrow and temple shots are awful, she remembers her father saying once. They’re often superficial, but they bleed a lot. Gets to be a pain to see and think if they’re left unattended. She can see Hilda biting her lip from her seat, fingers tapping a worried beat on the Almyran pine wood. She starts to go comfort her, but Khalid catches her wrist and shakes his head.

“She will have to do this on her own today,” he whispers. “Talk to her after round one is over.” Byleth grimaces, but relents and settles in her chair again. “He’s toying with Nader.”

“What do you mean?”

Khalid smiles and nods toward Balthus. “See how loose he is?” She watches as the young man bounces on the balls of his feet, fists still raised. Even with a bleeding eyebrow, he looks unfazed and as ready to go as he had been when the match had started. “He’s only warming up. Nader might be in for a harder fight than he thought. He’s not exactly in his prime years anymore.”

His words ring true when Balthus darts forward, jabbing Nader in the stomach before the older man can get out of the way. She watches in wonder as he dances out of the way of a wild swing from the Almyran, feints to the right and then catches Nader in the chest with a hard left hook. Nader coughs, pressing a hand to his sternum as he stumbles back this time. She thinks he congratulates Balthus on a nice hit, but she’s too far away to know for sure.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Hilda sink into her chair, a thumb to her lips as she debates on whether or not to start biting her nails.

_ “He’s quite the nimble one, that Balthus. He’s large, but light on his feet.” _ Byleth agrees. She’s never seen someone so big move so quickly before. She’d like to face him some time, it might be fun.  _ “Nader is also interesting. You’ve fought and won against him, but that was with swords. Could you do it with your fists?” _

She doesn’t know, but she’d like to find out. Perhaps she will challenge them both once this is over.

_ “Ah, but you will be leaving soon, yes? You won’t have the chance to challenge Nader again.” _

Something about that thought makes her chest ache. She’d forgotten they would be leaving almost directly after the celebration. Though… she’d never given her father an answer.  _ Will _ she be leaving?

She can’t imagine a life without her father and the mercenaries.

And what would she do here?

Khalid’s hand is still on her wrist, so when he squeezes it lightly she turns to look at him. “Balthus has the upperhand. He might win this round.” She returns her attention back to the match, watching in fascination as Balthus darts in and out of Nader’s reach. He moves so quickly, she’s never seen anything like it. “But I’ve seen Nader get out of tough spots like this before. He might not win this round, but he could come back in round two. And in round two, they get to use their gauntlets.”

Byleth frowns. “Weren’t they allowed to use them before?”

“Hilda chose fists  _ and _ gauntlets,” he reminds her, eyes still on the match. “It’s not exactly an official rule, but if a challenger suggests two weapons then the one not used in the first round will be used in the second round. They’re using their fists in this round, so they’ll get to use their gauntlets in the next round.”

Byleth doesn’t know why, but she shivers. She’s not cold, and yet… she feels uneasy.

She wants to focus on him and not the match. He looks exhausted, stretched thin; she has never seen him look like this before. Had his killing of Feroze truly left him so tired? She wonders if it might be something else. But with the sounds of the crowd screaming and cheering throughout the stands, she can hardly string two thoughts together (much less two questions). She should have been there at his side, not running away from the odd ache in her chest. She will never forgive herself for leaving him to deal with his actions on his own.

Why had she run away? She doesn’t have a good answer. Certainly not one she is satisfied with. She had run because she didn’t know how to handle whatever she had started feeling. Like a coward… and she will never forgive herself for doing so.

Perhaps she will get the chance to ask him during the party later? She hopes he—

The loud sound of shouting from the crowd turns her attention from the prince again. Hilda is sitting on the edge of her seat now, never once looking anywhere but the match and how Balthus is practically dancing around Nader. He gets one last jab in before that loud ringing reverberates through the arena and he is bouncing out of Nader’s reach. Hilda, for all her worrying, heaves a breath and settles back against her chair. Her eyes are still on Balthus, who has looked up at her and winked again. She makes a show of rolling her eyes at him.

“The winner of the first match is Balthus von Albrecht!” someone calls. Byleth doesn’t see who, and she can’t tell where the voice comes from. “The second match will begin once the champions choose their gauntlets!”

Khalid heaves a sigh, twirling his braid around his finger now. Something like worry etches its way onto his face. She doesn’t like that look. It’s never good.

She touches his wrist. “Is something wrong?” He blinks out of his stupor. “You’re pulling your hair.” He lifts an eyebrow. He doesn’t know that his tugging on his hair is a nervous tick of his. “What’s wrong?” He seems to blush, realizing why she thinks there’s something wrong; he drops his hand from his braid and quickly turns his eyes back on the match. “Khalid, what—?”

“I’ll tell you later. The second match is about to start.”

She returns her gaze to the fighters, but she can’t help but feel a little disappointed by his response. He isn’t acting like himself, and that is unsettling. It reminds her of when he’d started avoiding her.

To which she later avoided him of her own volition, which she needs to apologize for.

Dissatisfied, Byleth reaches out again and takes hold of his wrist. He flinches but doesn’t draw his hand back. She almost pulls hers away, not intending to scare him. Maybe she’d apologize to him for that, too. Maybe she would apologize to him for a great many things.

“Tell me at the celebration?” she murmurs, keeping her eyes on the two men pummeling each other in the sand with training gauntlets.

He doesn’t say anything at first, and she forces herself not to look at him.

After a few moments of silence—though her breath hitches when she feels the steady rise in his pulse—Khalid shifts a hand over hers. Still refusing to look at him, she barely catches the small nod he gives her out of the corner of her eye. She deflates, tension in her shoulders ebbing away as he squeezes her hand.

“Only if you give me the answer you refuse to give your father.”

Byleth grimaces. She supposes she does need to arrive at some sort of answer. It might not be the right one, but for now, it is the only one she can choose. And, while she is at it, she will apologize to him for her actions. She’s made a great many mistakes. She wants to clear everything up between them.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, we have arrived at the match of the century! Though I left you on a cliffhanger so you get to speculate until the next chapter on who wins this match. Place your bets! Place your bets! Jk...
> 
> Also, fight scenes that aren’t taking place between the POV character and another are... weird for me to write. Idk why, they’re just a little funky. ANYWAY, thank you all for your wonderful comments! If you need a refresher on what’s happening, definitely go back and reread some of these chapters because stuff will definitely start happening in the next few chapters (few being like 6 ig). LOTS of stuff, hehe. 😏
> 
> And definitely leave a comment, kudos, and bookmark/subscribe!
> 
> (As a completely irrelevant side note, daylight savings time is horrible because I never remember to change my clock on time, so thank goodness for my phone alarm because it’s automatic. Give me my one hour of sleep back, ugh...)


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